THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE     MAGDALENE 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 


BY 

DOLF  WYLLARDE 

Author  of 

"Verges/'  "Temperament" 
etc..  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
MCMXX 


Printed  in  Great  Britain. 


/f 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

Proem                                                  .  .       9 

The  Magdalene  .                  .  .  .  .11 

Coloured  Experiences  .                 .  .  .  .20 

A  Season  of  the  Year  .  .  .  .21 

Qui  Bono?      .  .                .  .  .  .22 

Nostalgia          .  .                 .  .  .  .23 

A  Prayer         .  .                .  .  .  .26 

The  Inheritance                                  .  .     27 

Winter  Beauty  .  .     30 

In  a  Hansom  .                                    .  .31 

Reincarnation    ...  .  .     34 

To  Saint  Anthony                               .  .  .     36 

The  Constitution  .  ...     37 

The  Socialists  .  ...     40 

From  London  to  the  Southern  Cross  .  .  .43 

Fancy                 .  .                  .  .  .  .44 

Lost                 .  .                .  .  .  .45 

A  Heretic's  Hymn  .                .  .  .  .46 

Song                                                  .  .  .  .48 

The  Shadow-Show  ...  .49 

The  Letter      .  ....     50 

The  Golden  Hour  .                 .  .  .  .51 

s 


6238G9 


6  CONTENTS 

PACK 

The  Gift          .  .52 

Saint  Anthony                    ...  53 

An  Unblest  Prayer          .  .63 

Linda                 ...  .65 

A  Bead-RolI  ....  .67 

For  a  Child    ...  .68 

The  Aviators  ....  .70 

Sestina  .  ....     72 

A  Roundel      .  .74 

Sonnet                .  .75 

Roundel           .  .76 

Nemo  Omnibus  Horis  Sapit  .     77 

Winter              .                 .                 .                 .  .                 .78 

Dead— A  Subaltern         .  -     80 

Germany 

1916  Raids      ....  .83 

Wayside  Shrines  •     85 

A  Thought  for  France    •  .                 .     86 

Bath                 ...  87 

A  Dead  Woman             .                                .  .    90 

Durban  :  Natal                   .  .92 

A  Sea-Captain                   .  .     93 

London'*  Child                 .                 .                 .  .                 .94 

A  Ballad  of  the  Tropici                  .  .96 

The  Dreamer  .     97 

The   New  Eve                                                      .  .99 

The  Man  who  would  be  Young  Again  .   101 

Tragedies          .                 .                 .                 .  .                 .102 


CONTENTS  7 

PAGE 

Democritus       .  .                                 .103 

God                  .  .  105 

A  Collie  Dog                  .  .107 

The  Visionaries                .  .                                  .                 .110 

Caprice             .  .112 

The  Song  of  the  Horse  .                 .                 .                 .113 

Swinburnia        .                 .  .                 .                 .                 .114 

A  Fisher's  Song                .  .                  .                  .                  .116 

The  Call  of  the  West     .  .                                 .117 

The  Absent  Owner         .  .119 

Tavistock           .  .                 .                 .                 .121 

The  Law  of  the  Land     .  .                .                .122 

The  Basket  Men  .                                 .                .123 

Milton               .  .   124 

A  West-Country  Hunting  Song  .                 .                 .                 .126 

Envoi                 .                  .  .128 


PROEM 

A  ROUNDEL  OF  YOUTH 

SINGING,  as  a  poet  might, 
I  went  forth  where  flowers  were  springing, 
For  the  sake  of  pure  delight 
Singing  ! 

Golden  day  and  silver  night, 
Sweeter  joys  forever  bringing, 
Followed  Time's  relentless  flight. 

Glad  for  youth,  and  strong  for  right, 
Folly's  bells  unheeded  ringing, 
I  went  forth  in  all  men's  sight 
Singing. 


A  ROUNDEL  OF  AGE 

WRITE  up  against  my  name  "  This  one  at  least 

Worked  honestly,  without  the  dream  of  fame.' 
Such  plea,  when  the  accusing  voice  has  ceased, 
Write  up  against  my  name. 

I  know  that  I  must  stand  before  man's  blame, 

Proved  all  unworthy  of  Olympus'  feast, 
And  stripped  of  all,  except  some  meed  of  shame. 

Not  mine  the  ring  of  praise  from  West  to  East — 

Yet  though  I  make  no  other  better  claim, 
The  tale  of  how  I  toiled  until  released 
Write  up  against  my  name. 


10 


THE  MAGDALENE 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 
THE  MAGDALENE 

1  For  we  have  not  an  high  priest  which  cannot  be  touched  with  the 
feeling  of  our  infirmities ;  fait  was  in  all  points  tempted  like  as 
•we  are.  ..." 

HER  window  looked  upon  the  street, 

She  gazed  as  one  who  groweth  blind, 
Indifferent  who  her  glance  should  meet, 
And  sickeningly  her  pulses  beat 
For  all  mankind. 


All  day  she  heard  their  footsteps  fall 

As  pointing  those  who  had  not  seen. 
They  looked  as  they  would  pierce  the  wall — 
"  That  is  the  house  of  her  they  call 
The  Magdalene." 

Reverberate  through  the  city  went 

The  sound  of  her  notorious  name  ; 
Her  pleasure  had  its  full  content, 
Nor  any  asked  she  should  repent 
Her  willing  shame, 
ii 


12  THE  MAGDALENE 

Too  certain  to  be  overbold 

The  beauty  of  her  glowing  face. 
Brown  shadows  flickered  through  the  gold 
Of  all  her  hair  ;  her  mantle's  fold 
Promised  more  grace. 

Men  found  all  fair  and  lovely  things 
Within  the  sanction  of  her  house, 
And  Love  had  folded  there  his  wings. 
She  reigned,  with  power  as  a  king's 
Who  bids  carouse. 

Once  in  wild  revel  of  the  night 

She  leaned  aside  a  little  space  ; 

Adown  the  long  street,  moony-white, 

One  passed  ; — an  instant  in  her  sight 

She  held  his  face. 

Then  once  again  the  joyous  feast 

Leaving  the  solitude  outside, 
The  gladness  suddenly  decreased, 
She  wearied  till  the  music  ceased — 
Her  joy  had  died. 

Her  voiceless  question  broke  at  last, 

She  turned  as  one  who  fears  to  flinch 
From  Fate  which  follows  overfast. 
"  Knowst  thou  him,"  she  said,  "  who  passed 
A  minute  since  ?  " 

One  answered,  "  That  is  even  he 
Whom  some  call  Christ.    The  story  ran 


THE  MAGDALENE  13 

From  Nazareth  to  Galilee." 
"  I  see  no  Christ,"  she  said,  "  I  see 
A  very  man." 

"  They  say  he  worketh  miracles, 
Calling  upon  the  God  above." 
"  Yea,  so  ?  "  she  saith,  "  Doth  God  work  spells  ?  " 
But  in  her  heart  desire  swells, 
I  would  his  love  !  " 

And  still  as  day  by  day  returned 

And  brought  the  night  she  grew  to  hate, 
A  hidden  purpose,  half  discerned, 
Grew  in  her,  till  the  impulse  burned 
As  strong  as  Fate. 

She  lifted  godless  eyes  in  prayer 

To  heathen  gods  of  hill  and  grove. 
"  Grant  me  his  love  !  "  breathed  her  despair. 
And  still  her  heart  repeated  there, 
"  His  love  !    His  love  !  " 

And  often  at  the  window  pressed 

Her  vigil  hungered  on  the  street, 
Bruising  the  yearning  of  her  breast, 
To  satisfy  the  old  unrest 
His  face  to  meet. 

And  yet  he  came  not.    Day  by  day 

She  held  her  breath  to  ask — and  stayed. 
At  length  chance  word  had  showed  the  way  ; 
"  Within  the  Temple,"  chattered  they, 
"  He  daily  prayed." 


14  THE  MAGDALENE 

And  driven  as  one  tempest-tossed 

Her  unused  feet  were  hurried  on. 
She  gazed  around  as  she  were  lost, 
So  many  years  she  had  not  crossed 
The  sacred  stone. 

And  the  great  hush  bewildered  her — 

Not  less  the  psalms  when  all  rejoice, 
And  cry  of  priest  and  worshipper, — 
When  on  a  sudden  through  the  stir 
She  heard  a  voice. 

The  sound  thrilled  through  her  keenly  sweet 

"  Love  one  another  !  "  pleaded  he. 
Such  blessing  might  her  heart  repeat, 
And  still  each  pulse  responsive  beat, 
"  Love  I  not  thee  ?  " 

"  Love  one  another,  even  as  I 

Have  loved  you.    God  is  Love  !  "  he  saith. 
Her  womanhood  returned  reply, 
"  Ah  then,  how  sweet  is  deity 
Of  mortal  breath  !  " 

She  knelt  enraptured  in  her  thought 

Of  all  the  bliss  that  life  might  hold, 
Musing  the  doctrine  that  he  taught ; — 
The  sweetest  sinner  ever  bought 
With  saddest  gold. 

Humble  upon  her  knees  she  knelt 
Until  the  hurrying  throng  went  by. 


THE  MAGDALENE  15 

Each  man  passed  homeward  where  he  dwelt ; 
She  lingered  on  until  she  felt 
One  drawing  nigh. 

Then  stretched  her  hands  in  mute  appeal 

To  touch  his  robe,  as  she  besought. 
The  footsteps  paused — her  hope  was  real, 
The  nearness  that  her  dreams  ideal 
Had  never  taught. 

"  Master  !  "  she  whispered,  "  I  adore  !  " 

And  lifted  eyes  which  overran 
With  love,  and  left  no  room  for  awe. 
She  saw  no  Christ — she  only  saw 
A  very  man. 

While  like  to  one  whose  heart  is  wrung 

He  gazed  on  her  who  did  entreat, 
And  speechlessly  his  glances  hung 
Above  the  earthly  love  which  clung 
About  his  feet. 

With  sudden  anguish  in  the  sense 

Of  all  the  treasure  he  forbore, 
His  manhood's  bitter  impotence 
Broke  harshly  in  his  utterance — 
"  Go — sin  no  more." 

He  turned  and  went — in  deity 

Which  might  not  find  God's  creatures  fair. 
Foreshadowing  Gethsemane 
In  loneliness  of  agony 

Which  left  her  there. 


16  THE  MAGDALENE 

And  she  too  rose.    The  glowing  day 
Was  richer  as  she  homeward  went. 
"  Go — sin  no  more — but  keep  for  me 
Thy  love's  supreme  entirety." 
She  was  content. 

Her  sweetness  changed  the  words  aright 

To  love's  command  ; — her  purpose  won 
She  would  no  more  the  past  delight 
Of  revel  through  the  languid  night  ; 
Such  things  were  done. 

And  all  the  old  life  slipped  away 

As  some  sad  memory  grown  dim. 
She  heard  his  voice  throughout  the  day, 
And  the  hot  night  was  worn  away 
In  dreams  of  him. 

Not  fain  of  what  he  preached  was  she, 
Nor  might  her  worship  understand 
The  greatness  of  his  majesty. 
She  only  asked  that  she  might  see, 
And  touch  his  hand. 

The  rest  would  come,  and  she  could  live 

In  visions  of  the  Paradise 
She  gilded  all  her  Earth  wherewith, 
Nor  asked  as  yet  that  he  should  give 
What  might  suffice. 

She  lingered  where  he  sat  at  meat 
As  if  her  silent  patience  there 


THE  MAGDALENE  17 

Would  find  some  service  incomplete 
That  she  might  do  ; — to  touch  his  feet 
Were  sweet  to  her. 

And  once  she  brought  a  precious  balm 

And  filled  the  room  with  odours  rare, 
Kneeling  as  though  she  made  a  charm, — 
He  felt  her  breast  against  him,  warm 
Through  all  her  hair. 

And  stooping  downward,  calmly  laid 

A  gracious  hand  upon  the  gold 
Which  round  her  head  a  glory  made. 
And  nothing  in  the  touch  betrayed 
Regret  untold. 

The  wordless  anguish  of  the  Christ 

Outweighed  in  infinite  remorse 
The  manhood  that  was  sacrificed, 
And  daily  in  the  ransom  priced 
He  bore  the  cross. 

Beneath  the  passionless  control 

The  lower  life  lay  unsubdued — 
Since  God  decreed  the  heavy  dole 
Of  all  men  in  the  single  soul 
He  had  embued. 

For  in  the  nature  that  he  bore 

Christ's  human  pain  was  bitter  keen  ; 
The  spirit  chafed  and  wounded  sore 
The  heart  that  asked  for  evermore 
What  might  have  been. 


18  THE  MAGDALENE 

And  when  he  stretched  his  hands  to  bless 

With  laboured  breath  the  low  words  came, 
Lest  this  should  turn  to  a  caress, 
And  passion  mar  the  tenderness 
Which  spoke  her  name  ; 

Until  the  final  hour  when  she 

Followed  the  feet  which  led  her  on 
To  find  her  dream  of  bliss  to  be 
Had  reached  its  end  on  Calvary — 
And  he  was  gone. 

Too  human  to  be  reconciled 
To  union  of  a  second  birth 
She  hungered  dumbly,  like  a  child, 
For  things  she  knew  ; — by  Earth  defiled 
She  loved  the  Earth. 

It  was  the  man  to  whom  she  yearned, 

The  body  that  her  own  might  touch  ; 
Not  Godhead  that  she  scarce  discerned, 
Much  pardon  might  she  need,  but  earned, 
For  she  loved  much. 

Nor  was  the  spiritual  need 

Of  such  an  one  as  greatly  shown 
By  promise  as  by  very  deed. 
Some  learn  by  faith — but  others  read 
By  sight  alone. 

The  revelation  mystical 
Was  robbed  of  its  diviner  screen 


THE  MAGDALENE  19 

To  suit  her  need.    The  first  of  all 
Who  saw  him  risen,  was  her  they  call 
The  Magdalene. 

And  she  was  glad,  not  that  he  proved 

His  promise  true  that  souls  should  rise 
But  that  she  saw  the  face  she  loved, 
And  daily  waited,  deeply  moved, 
To  meet  his  eyes. 

For  evermore  the  hope  was  rife 

That  what  had  been  might  be  again. 
And  still  through  all  her  after  life, 
The  dear  delusion  stilled  the  strife 
Though  nursed  in  vain. 

She  faded  from  the  Jewish  page 

With  that  last  meeting  ;  but  her  face, 
Eternal  Beauty's  heritage, 
Flashes  across  the  long-dead  age 
With  vivid  grace. 

Her  spirit  haunts  the  Earth  to  prove 

The  impotence  of  Womanhood  ; 
With  eyes  that  never  look  above 
She  tortures  with  her  human  love 
God's  dream  of  good. 

And  still  wherever  Nature  wreaks 

Her  vengeance  for  her  thwarted  plan, 
The  Magdalene  in  Woman^speaks — 
She  seeks  no  Christ — she  only  seeks 
A  very  man. 


COLOURED  EXPERIENCES 

WORK  is  grey,  you  know, 

And  Joy  is  blue  ; 
Sacrifice  is  like  the  snow 

White  all  through. 

Passion's  red,  you  know  ; — 

All  Love,  I  think, 
Is  tinted  with  an  afterglow, — 

Affection's  pink, — 

Flirtation's — hardly  white  ! 

Motherhood's  flushed 
With  sunset  colours  soft  and  bright 

As  if  it  blushed. 

Fear  is  black,  you  know, 

And  Death  is  green  ; 
Pain  is  royal  purple, — so 

The  Soul  has  seen. 


20 


A  SEASON  OF  THE  YEAR 

BEFORE  they  called  me  April,  or  gave  me  thirty  days, 
Binding  the  limits  of  a  Month  about  my  flowered  ways — 
I  was  the  blood-beat  of  the  year,  the  earliest  Hymn  of  Praise  ! 

The  year  turned  on  its  axis  when  Winter's  sands  had  run, 
Heaving  a  leafier  shoulder  up  to  greet  the  growing  sun — 
I  was  the  timeless  moment  then, — unfinished,  unbegun. 

I  flashed  across  the  Heavens — I  sparkled  in  the  rays — 

And  none  might  make  a  tryst  with  me  to  move  in  measured 

ways — 
Before  they  called  me  April,  or  gave  me  thirty  days  ! 


21 


QUI  BONO? 

IF  I  listened,  I  should  hear  my  heart  crying, 
I  should  taste  the  bitterness  of  blood  and  tears  ; 

But  no  echo  of  your  tenderness  replying 
Would  drift  to  me  across  the  parting  years. 

If  I  listened,  I  should  hear  my  heart's  sorrow, — 
So  I  fill  the  empty  days  with  busy  things  ; 

The  ordered  sleep,  the  routine  of  to-morrow, 
To  cheat  the  leaden  moments  into  wings. 

I  close  my  ears,  I  use  in  all  quiescence 
The  cheerful  prison  of  my  body's  need  ; 

But  no  effort  stills  the  craving  for  your  presence, 
Or  checks  the  sobbing  that  I  will  not  heed. 


22 


NOSTALGIA 

THEY  may  talk  of  the  Call  of  the  East,  and  the  ancient  civilisa- 
tions, 

The  spell  of  the  Orient,  and  of  old,  mysterious  things  ; 
They  may  boast  by  temples  and  gods,  where  incense  hangs  in 

the  nostrils, 
And  the  cloth  is  stiff  with  gold,  and  you  tread  the  dead  dust 

of  kings. — 
But  I  want  to  go  West — go  West !  where  no  man  has  builded 

cities, 
To  the  blue  and  the  gold  and  the  green  that  is  all  that  the 

earth  can  show, — 
With  clouds  a-pile   in  the  sky,   and   gorgeous  shadows  in 

passing, 

The  steady  sun  in  his  strength  and  the  steam  of  the  earth 
below ! 

They  may  boast  of  their  wonderful  East  with  its  merchandise 

and  its  traffic. 

Where  the  earth  is  desert  and  rock,  and  the  heat  is  a  shade- 
less  glare — 
And  they  show  you  a  brazen  ball  which  they  call  "  A  beautiful 

sunset !  " 

In  the  hard  Oriental  sky,  and  the  clear  Oriental  air. — 
But  I  want  to  go  West — go  West !   to  the  merciful  Western 

Tropics 

That  spread  their  prodigal  beauty  before  the  faces  of  men, 
23 


24  NOSTALGIA 

Where  the  clouds  are  bleeding  with  colour — the  sky  is  bruised 

into  glory — 

And  you  do  not  believe  till  you  see,  and  you  hardly  credit 
it  then. 


They  may  show  you  the  sights  of  the  East,  the  crowds  and  the 

moving  pageant, 

And  what  is  it  all  but  Man  grimacing  under  the  stars  ? 
The  desert  was  there  ere  he  was,  the  rock  and  the  sand  out- 
last him, — 
I  am  sick  of  the  dust  and  the  temples,  the  smell  of  their 

packed  bazaars. 

For  I  want  to  go  West — go  West !   to  the  moist  green  slum- 
berous Tropics, 
Where  only  the  crickets  hum  and  the  tree-frog  thrills  in  the 

night — 
To  the  little  ramshackle  huts  that  are  all  that  the  Negro  builds 

him, 

And  the  bush  comes  down  to  the  shore,  and  cities  are  out 
of  sight. 

They  may  tell  of  their  "  Gorgeous  East  " — their  pomp  and 

decadent  splendour — 

Elephants,  camels,  and  all, — a  spectacle  out  of  the  Ark  ! 
And  half  of  the  year  they  are  drowned,  and  half  of  the  year 

they  are  arid — 
Dry-throat,  cruel  Monsoons,  and  "  Rains  "  from  dawning 

till  dark- 
But  my  heart's  away  to  the  West,  to  the  level  warmth  and  the 

moisture, 

The  sap  that  is  always  rising,  the  boughs  that  are  never 
bare, 


NOSTALGIA  25 

The  lush,   rich  guinea -grass  that  is   shoulder-high  in  the 

pastures, — 

The  best  of  my  soul  remembers,  and  the  half  of  my  heart 
is  there. 


A  PRAYER 

WASTE  not  Thy  pity,  dear  my  God, 

On  us  who  cry  at  leisure 
To  pray  Thee  spare  th'  avenging  rod 
On  some  loved  earthly  treasure  ; 

For  though  we  fear  and  dread  its  loss, 
It  still  is  ours, — we  bear  no  Cross. 

Or  in  the  moment  of  our  doom 
When  what  we  love  is  taken, 
To  such  a  cry  across  the  gloom 
As  finds  the  Angels  shaken, — 

We  are  incredulous  of  grief 
So  long  as  protest  brings  relief. 

But  when  we  stand  with  empty  hands 

Before  the  shrine  of  Heaven — 
With  no  more  dread  of  Thy  commands, 
Or  plea  to  be  forgiven, — 

Then,  though  we  raise  no  useless  cry. 
Have  mercy  on  our  agony  ! 


26 


THE  INHERITANCE 

IN  the  early  growth  of  the  Nations, 

Before  that  law  was  complete, 
The  King  gave  call  of  a  tourney 

Where  knight  with  knight  should  compete. 
And  those  were  the  days  of  contest, 

When  a  man  stood  strong  on  his  feet. 

The  knights  came  down  to  the  jousting, 

Hot -foot,  keen  for  their  own  ; 
And  each  man  stood  on  his  merits, 

And  was  judged  for  himself  alone  ; 
For  the  spurs  were  won  for  a  lifetime, 

Or  ever  the  beard  was  grown. 

The  King  gave  a  title  as  guerdon 

To  the  knight  who  the  tourney  won  ; 

Shall  a  man  pass  personal  valour 
With  a  name  to  his  eldest  son  ? 

Let  us  go  back  to  our  manhood, 
And  forget  what  the  King  has  done  ! 

The  knight  who  was  judged  the  victor 

Held  castle  and  lands  in  fee 
To  pass  them  on  to  his  heirs 

And  his  line  in  heredity, 
With  the  name  that  he  bore  in  the  winning — 

And  this  was  the  King's  decree. 
27 


28  THE  INHERITANCE 

They  called  him  the  Lord  of  the  Tourney, 
For  the  love  of  the  knightly  games  ; 

And  his  son  takes  the  unearned  title 
By  the  right  of  his  legal  claims  ; — 

Let  us  go  back  to  our  manhood — 
It  is  better  than  empty  names. 

For  the  knight  is  known  by  his  proving, 
As  the  sword  is  known  by  its  ring. 

Untested  is  all  unworthy — 
And  this  is  an  evil  thing 

Though  it  were  law  new-written 
And  sealed  by  the  hand  of  the  King. — 

The  King  looked  from  the  pavilion. 
In  the  midst  of  his  squires  and  dames, 

And  under  the  lifted  visor 

He  saw  the  scars  and  their  names — 

Fearlessness,  Strength,  Endurance, 
Skill,  and  Courageous  Aims. 

These  were  the  knight's  achievements, 

Now  he  had  won  the  prize  ; 
Taking  the  crown  of  laurel 

He  looked  in  his  Sovereign's  eyes, 
For  knights,  in  the  youth  of  the  Nations, 

Spoke  to  the  King  without  lies. 

The  King  looked  from  the  pavilion, 
And  pride  had  reddened  his  cheek  ; 

He  gave  the  crown  to  the  victor 
For  the  strong  man  over  the  weak. 

But  the  knight  said,  "  Liege,  have  I  pardon 
For  words  ?  "    And  the  King  said  "  Speak  ! 


THE  INHERITANCE  29 

And  he  said,  "  I  will  take  this  guerdon 

For  my  life  and  its  single  span  ; 
And  the  honour  your  Liege  has  given 

I  will  bear  it  as  subject  can. 
But  God  gave  the  first  great  title 

When  He  called  me  simply  a  man  !  " 

Nations,  Kings,  and  their  vassals, 

Echo  an  empty  word  ! 
Truth  sprang  high  to  the  challenge 

In  the  day  when  that  vow  was  heard — 
But  the  ages  darkened  the  meaning, 

The  right  of  the  heel  to  be  spurred  ! 

We  have  asked  men  proven  in  harness 

For  ourselves  and  the  age's  needs  ; 
They  have  given  us  kings  by  tradition, 

And  peers  by  their  father's  deeds. — 
Let  us  go  back  to  our  manhood, 

Forgetting  their  empty  creeds  ! 

A  latter-day  spirit  trembles — 

A  latter-day  faith  demurs  ; 
Are  they  feared  for  the  losing  of  honours, 

Knowing  them  craven  and  curs  ? 
Send  them  back  to  probation, 

Back  to  the  winning  of  spurs  ! 


WINTER  BEAUTY 

BARE  brown  branches  above  the  mould — 
When  the  sun  strikes  them  they  shine  like  gold. 
What  is  there  left  for  the  Spring  to  do 
When  Winter  has  gilded  the  world  for  you  ? 
Under  the  hedgerows'  dripping  vest 
The  moss  is  greener  than  Summer's  best  ; 
And  Earth  is  a  mirror  of  hope  on  high 
Where  the  wet  road  is  blue  with  the  sky. 
Swinging  wide  in  the  nor '-west  breeze 
Are  beautiful  skeleton  lines  of  trees, 
And  bare  brown  branches  above  the  mould — 
When  the  sun  strikes  them  they  look  like  gold  ! 


30 


IN  A  HANSOM 

(Prehistoric) 

A  MEMORY  born  to  oblivion — 

Thrust  down  in  the  depths  of  the  heart ; 
An  hour  that  owned  its  dominion 

To  the  knowledge  how  soon  we  must  part. 
The  far  wicked  lights  on  the  River — 

The  sense  of  the  City  at  night — 
The  shadows  that  flicker  and  quiver 

Whirled  past  out  of  sight. — 


Dear  London,  too  busy  to  heed  us, — 

Contented  to  let  us  alone  ! 
What  lovers  now  passing  can  need  us 

Whose  world  is  as  small  as  our  own  ? 
A  space  that  can  hold  us — us  only — 

A  moment  before  we  need  part — 
The  world  left  us  utterly  lonely, — 

So  close  heart  to  heart ! 


No  heeds,  saving  I  who  must  heed  you — 
My  sense  of  you  one  with  my  own. 

None  needs  you,  you  know,  as  I  need  you — 
This  moment  of  all  time  alone  ! 


32  IN  A  HANSOM 

So  close,  that  the  pulse  that  is  throbbing 
Seems  equally  ours  to  divine  ; — 

Is  it  my  heart  that  yours  has  been  robbing, 
Or  yours  that  drains  mine  ? 


What  deity  claims  to  give  pardon 

For  the  flowery  path  we  have  trod  ? 
Priapus  is  god  of  the  Garden, 

And  Eden  the  Garden  of  God  ! 
What  matter  the  form  of  the  story, 

For  Pagan  and  Christian  are  one 
In  the  flame  of  a  sexual  glory 

As  old  as  the  sun  ! 


Is  sin  the  result  of  commission, 

Whose  heroes  at  least  dare  to  live  ? 
Or  is  not  the  coward  omission 

The  deadlier  sin  to  forgive  ! 
I  would  and  I  would  not,  asunder, — 

You  pondered,  perhaps,  in  your  heart- 
Who  hestitates  ever,  I  wonder, 

Six  inches  apart  ? 

I  remember  the  mute  resolution 

Of  lips  that  met  fast  on  the  way — 
The  darkness  that  gave  absolution 

For  what  were  denounced  of  the  day  ; 
For  night  is  the  only  redeemer 

Of  laws  that  the  daylight  has  made. — 
Fellow  sinner  of  mine,  fellow  dreamer, 

Was  either  afraid  ? 


IN  A  HANSOM  33 

The  sound  of  the  wheels  running  even — 

The  jingle  of  harness  and  hoofs — 
The  dark  of  the  ultimate  Heaven 

Hung  over  the  line  of  the  roofs  ; — 
The  daintiest  sense  of  a  nearness, — 

The  touch  half  unsatisfied  yet, — 
I  remember  the  warmth  and  the  dearness,  .  .  , 

The  wrong — I  forget  ! 


REINCARNATION 

I  WAS  a  teller  of  tales 

Low  in  the  dust  by  the  roadside, 

Watching  the  world  go  by, 

Pageant  and  colour  and  strife  ; 

Low  I  called  from  the  dust 

"  There  was  a  barber  in  Bagdad  " — 

Then  they  loitered  to  hear 

Pleased  as  children  awhile. — 

Out  of  the  endless  ages 

Men  have  listened  to  stories. — 

I  am  a  teller  of  tales — 

Old  as  the  hills  is  my  trade. 

I  was  a  teller  of  tales 
When  the  Sphinx  was  carven  in  Egypt. 
I  sat  in  the  dust  and  cried 
To  those  who  passed  me  by 
"  There  was  a  Queen  in  the  South  " — 
Then  they  loitered  to  listen, 
Even  the  great  caravan 
Passing  into  the  desert. 
I  was  a  teller  of  tales 

When  the  Vikings  sailed  to  the  Norseland, 
Listening  over  their  fires 
Glad  as  children  to  hear — 
Old  as  the  hills  is  my  trade. 
34 


REINCARNATION  35 

I  am  a  teller  of  tales 
Low  in  the  dust  of  the  highway 
Where  men  buy  and  sell 
In  the  great  Cities  to-day. 
Fain  would  I  rise  and  go, 
Buy  and  sell  in  my  turn, 
Join  in  the  jingle  of  life — 
I,  who  may  only  watch, 
Weaving  what  I  have  seen 
Into  the  fabric  of  tales. 
So  I  sit  by  the  highway 
And  men  still  loiter  to  listen 
As  through  the  endless  years. 
I  am  a  teller  of  tales — 
Old  as  the  hills  is  my  trade. 


TO  SAINT  ANTHONY 

(Patron  of  Lost  Treasures) 

I'VE  lost  my  purse,  St.  Anthony — 
I  pray  thee,  Saint,  return  it  me  ! 
If  burning  candles  at  thy  shrine 

Should  make  thee  gracious  to  my  plaint, 
(Indeed  the  purse  was  truly  mine  !) 
I'll  light  thee  as  my  patron  saint. 

Anthony  ! — 
How  poor  am  I  till  thou  restore  my  treasury  ! 

I've  lost  my  heart,  St.  Anthony — 

I  pray  thee,  Saint,  to  comfort  me  ! 

If  pious  pilgrim  at  thy  shrine 

Can  win  a  hearing  for  despair, 
(Indeed  the  heart  was  truly  mine  !) 
Thou  wilt  not  deafen  to  my  pray'r — 

Anthony ! — 
Send  me  not  back  my  heart — but  give  me  hers  in  fee  ! 


THE  CONSTITUTION 

WE  set  a  Figurehead  in  the  sand — 

And  so  we  guard  our  King — 
To  front  the  seas  of  our  sea-girt  strand  ; 
And  we  ranged  ourselves  on  either  hand, 
The  men  of  the  Isles  and  of  Angleland, — 
We  swore  allegiance  to  a  Name — 

A  symbol,  a  powerless  thing  ; 
The  captains  vowed  to  uphold  the  same 
(0  they  must  rule  for  the  Symbol  Name — 
But  none  for  himself  shall  dare  a  claim.) 

And  so  we  guard  our  King. 
This  is  wise,  and  sound,  and  dread, 
To  rule  our  realm  through  a  Figurehead. 

There  came  a  galleon  over  seas — 

And  so  we  guard  our  King — 
We  fought  with  those,  and  we  fought  with  these, 
Till  they  sapped  our  strength  with  their  heresies. 
And  there  stepped  a  man  from  the  forefront  rank 

For  the  tenets  that  they  bring  ; 
(Roman  and  Saxon  and  Dane  and  Frank 

They  owned  to  a  despot  King.) 
And  the  crafty  poison  spread  like  fire, 
We  listened,  deaf  to  his  own  desire, 
We  hailed  him  Chief,  and  he  ruled  our  cause — 
One  man's  saying  for  all  men's  laws — 

And  so  we  guard  our  King. 
37 


38  THE  CONSTITUTION 

We  set  an  autocrat  in  the  land — 

And  so  we  guard  our  King. 
With  bloody  power  beneath  his  hand, — 
With  broken  faith  where  his  feet  should  stand, — 
No  more,  no  more  the  equal  band 
With  laws  for  all  and  the  good  of  all, 
But  one  man's  verdict  beyond  recall, 

And  the  curse  of  his  venomed  sting  ! 
William  and  Richard  and  Hal  and  John, — 
Broken  sceptres  to  lean  upon  ! 
We  have  loaned  our  land,  and  our  rights  are  gone. 

And  so  we  guard  our  King. 

We  rose  for  the  sake  of  an  olden  right — 

For  so  we  guard  our  King  ! 
We  set  the  uttermost  land  alight — 
From  the  grinding  greed  to  the  unjust  tax 
The  clang  of  harness  and  battle-axe 
Rang  down  from  cycle  to  century — 
Till  the  curse  lay  dead  and  the  land  lay  free, — 
And  weary  of  gold  in  the  dust  were  we. 
There  was  wrong  in  all  things  done  and  undone — 
Just  and  unjust  under  the  sun — 
But  we  stood  up  with  the  battle  won. 
We  saw  the  dead  upon  either  hand — 
The  Kings  of  the  Isles  and  of  Angleland — 

And  this  was  a  bitter  thing. 
But  we  raised  the  olden  order  we  planned — 
The  men  of  the  Isles  and  of  Angleland  ! 

We  have  set  a  Figurehead  in  the  sand, 

And  so  we  guard  our  King. 
Fronting  the  seas  of  a  symbol  strand, 

In  the  disc  of  a  golden  ring. 


THE  CONSTITUTION  39 

And  the  sound  of  a  sentry's  footstep  falls 
Below  the  ward  of  his  Palace  walls. 
We  have  spiked  them  high  lest  a  foe  should  win 
To  the  pleasure  gardens  that  lie  within  ; 
And  He  may  not  go,  and  He  may  not  stay, 
But  a  watchful  eye  on  His  steps  shall  prey  ; 
And  we  hedge  His  person  by  night  and  day, 

For  this  is  a  sacred  thing. 
Sceptre  and  crown  are  harmless  toys — 
We  greet  His  face  with  applauding  noise. 
And  the  last  of  our  blood  shall  not  be  dear 
Ere  a  foe  shall  draw  Him  a  step  too  near — 

For  so  we  guard  our  King. 

We  have  learned  the  worth  of  our  symbol  Name — 
We  will  die  for  the  rights  that  He  may  not  claim — 

The  gauntlet  He  may  not  fling. 
And  the  olden  rule  and  the  new  are  the  same — ' 

FOR  SO  WE  GUARD  OUR  KlNG  ! 

And  this  is  wise,  and  sound,  and  dread, 
That  we  rule  our  realm  by  a  Figurehead. 


THE  SOCIALISTS 

(Vers  Libres) 

THEY  came  to  me  and  said, 

"  Because  we  have  decided  that  equality  between  men  is 

justice 
There  shall  be  no  difference  made  between  one  and  another 

from  this  time  forth  ; 

No  privacy  which  shall  suggest  superiority  ; 
Nor  any  beauty  of  earth  that  is  not  organised  and  sanctioned 

by  the  Majority. 

Therefore  pull  down  your  garden  fence, 
And  take  your  share  of  common  goods, 
Like  your  neighbours." 

Then  I  looked  inward  to  my  Soul 
And  mourned  to  her  the  loss  of  pleasant  things — 
Things  that  I  had  held  as  harmless — 
Free  gifts  of  earth. 
And  my  Soul  comforted  me  ; 

'  Though  they  use  up  all  the  earth  as  feeding  ground, 
And  apportion  it  in  sections  to  the  community, 
They  cannot  take  the  stars  out  of  the  sky, 
Or  the  sunset  from  the  West" 

So  I  took  my  portion  with  submission  like  my  fellow  men  ; 
But  I  looked  for  beauty  and  liberty  beyond  the  earth 
And  found  comfort  therein. 

40 


41 

They  came  to  me  and  said, 

"  We  have  decreed  that  every  man  be  equal — 

But  those  who  are  neighbours  to  you  have  cause  of  complaint. 

They  say  that  while  their  eyes  are  bent  earthward 

Yours  are  finding  glory  in  the  earth  and  sky. 

That  while  theirs  see  nothing  but  common  ugly  things 

Yours  are  opened  so  that  you  draw  joy  from  the  Universe, 

And  that  you  can  gain  more  than  they  from  Nature. 

Which  is  manifestly  unfair. 

Therefore  close  your  eyes,  or  bandage  them,  that  you  may  be 

equal, 
And  forego  this  advantage." 

Then  I  cried  out  to  my  Soul, 

"  Are  you  to  be  stripped  of  your  inheritance, 

The  gift  of  seeing  God's  creation  in  its  beauty, 

Because  the  Majority  look  at  nothing  but  the  turnips  they 

have  grown — 

Food  for  their  gross  bodies  and  dull  minds  ? 
This  is  tyranny  and  injustice  worse  than  autocracy." 

But  my  Soul  comforted  me  ; 

"  Close  your  eyes,  as  they  will  have  it  so, 

And  I  will  still  show  you  visions. 

They  can  give  all  men  like  opportunities — 

They  can  take  from  one  that  hath  and  give  it  to  another  that 

hath  not — 

They  can  forbid  one  man  to  rise  above  another — 
And  still  men  will  not  be  equal. 
God  laughs  out  in  scorn — 
These  excellent  wiseacres  without  imagination, 
Who  would  fain  recreate  mankind, 


42  THE  SOCIALISTS 

And  pass  a  vote  of  censure  on  the  Almighty 

For  the  plan  of  the  Universe, 

What  are  they  but  children  playing  with  handfuls  of  earth  ? 

They  cannot  take  the  stars  from  the  sky, 

Or  the  sunset  out  of  the  West  I  " 


FROM  LONDON  TO  THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS 

(A  Cry  of  Labour) 

WHEN  the  first  warmth  stirs  in  the  shallow  mould 
Laid  here  and  there  within  our  miles  of  streets, — 
When  the  bought  violets  breathe  of  sudden  sweets, 

And  thinned  blood  quickens,  by  the  Spring  made  bold, — 
When  faint  buds  break  upon  our  stunted  trees — 
We  know  fruit  reddens  beyond  Summer  Seas. 

When  airless  heat  soaks  up  the  life  we  live, — 
Our  travesty  of  Summer  in  the  North  ! — 
When  desperation  urges  us  go  forth 

And  find  at  least  a  strength  to  labour  with, — 
When  July  mocks  us  in  the  dusty  trees — 
We  dream  of  warmth  and  sunshine  on  the  Seas. 

When  the  lamps  glare  through  morning  like  dead  eyes, 
And  faint  fog  threatens  all  the  world  without, — 
When  later  Autumn  wraps  us  round  about 

With  yellow  darkness  under  yellow  skies, — 
When  day  and  night  but  differ  in  degrees — 
We  know  that  there  is  sunlight  on  the  Seas. 

When  England  darkens  to  her  Winter  sleep, 

And  death  comes  down  in  triumph  with  the  cold, — 
When  sluggish  blood  desires  not,  nor  is  bold 

To  ask  for  some  poor  right  to  laugh  and  weep, — 
When  all  the  wine  is  emptied  to  the  lees — 
God  draws  the  Summer  out  beyond  our  Seas. 

43 


FANCY 

O  FANCY  is  a  brave  horse 

To  ride  upon  the  plain — 
To  gallop  on,  and  on,  and  on, 

And  never  draw  the  rein  ! 
But  lest  she  take  the  bit  in  teeth 

And  run  away  downhill, 
Keep  hold  o'  the  reins  o'  Fancy 

And  break  her  to  your  will. 

O  Fancy  is  a  fair  ship 

To  sail  upon  the  sea — 
And  you  may  go  to  fairy  lands 

Wherever  you  would  be. 
But  lest  she  break  you  on  the  shoals 

Or  run  you  on  the  sands, 
Keep  hold  o'  the  tiller  o'  Fancy 

And  steer  with  iron  hands  ! 


44 


LOST 

KlSS  me  for  the  sake  of  days  departed, 

For  the  something  that  I  meant  to  be 
When  I  trusted  life,  and  lived  pure-hearted — 
Kiss  me  ! 

Kiss  me  for  the  love  of  some  good  woman 
Whom  you  hold  in  reverence  tenderly, 
Dreaming  her  an  angel,  scarcely  human — 
Kiss  me  ! 

Kiss  me  just  because  the  name  of  "  Mother  " 

Lingers  yet  within  your  memory, 
And  one  woman  sorrows  for  another — 
Kiss  me ! 

Kiss  me  with  your  manhood  and  its  passion, 

Since  from  all  restraints  I  set  you  free, 
In  a  cruel, — in  a  fiercer  fashion — 
Kiss  me  ! 

Kiss  me  with  the  lips  that  cleave  and  tremble 

Fevered  with  their  own  inconstancy, 
Cheating  the  emotion  they  dissemble — 
Kiss  me  1 

Kiss  me,  sweetheart !    If  you  lack  a  reason 

Pause  for  none — we  shall  not  disagree. 
This  is  love's  abasement,  this  is  treason  ! — 
Kiss  me  I 
45 


A  HERETIC'S  HYMN 

(To  my  God) 

FRIEND,  be  at  my  shoulder, — 

Darker  seems  the  day, 
Trouble,  growing  bolder, 

Looms  across  my  way. 
You  and  I  together 

Never  knew  defeat ; 
White  must  be  my  feather 

Should  you  call  Retreat. 

Love,  the  great  enfolder, 

Says  not  "  Wrong  "  or  "  Right 
(Friend,  be  at  my  shoulder  !) 

Who  am  I,  to  fight  ? 
Others  counsel  some  way, 

Devious  paths  are  trod  ; 
There  is  only  one  way 

If  you  follow  God. 

Oh,  these  priests  have  striven — 

Words  of  little  worth. 
Preached  you  into  Heaven, 

Leaving  me  on  Earth. 
Nay,  as  I  grow  older 

Creeds  can  only  tease  ; 
Friend,  be  at  my  shoulder, 

Nearer  me  than  these. 
46 


A  HERETIC'S  HYMN  47 

At  the  end,  I  wonder, 

Shall  I  fear  defeat? 
I  am  down,  and  under, — 

Bugles  call  Retreat. 
Colder  still,  and  colder — 

Darkness  all  abroad  .  .  . 
Friend,  be  at  my  shoulder — 

Captain,  take  my  sword  I 


SONG 

(From  "The  House  in  the  Sands") 

MY  heart  is  as  hot  as  the  desert  sands 

For  the  love  of  thee. 
0  bring  me  the  coolness  of  thy  hands — 
Those  little  hands  ! — 

To  comfort  me. 

My  heart  is  as  scorching  as  desert  skies 

For  the  want  of  thee. 
O  lend  me  the  shadow  of  thine  eyes — 
Those  dewy  eyes  ! — 

To  shelter  me. 

My  heart  is  athirst  as  the  desert  wind 

To  drink  of  thee. 

(Xtell  me  not  that  my  soul  has  sinned, — 
Too  deeply  sinned, — 

But  come  to  me. 


48 


THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

(Song  from  "  Youth  will  be  Served  ") 

THIS  world  is  a  shadow-show 

Where  we  learn  no  definite  thing  ; 

We  grasp  at  the  real — and  lo  ! 

'Tis  a  phantom  to  which  we  cling. 

Yesterday's  truth  that  we  know 
To-day  is  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

In  vain  we  listen  and  hark, 
And  in  vain  we  question  why  ; 

Gone  is  the  glimmering  spark 
We  thought  to  assure  ourselves  by. 

Pain  is  a  dream  in  the  dark, 
And  love  is  a  light  in  the  sky. 


49 


THE  LETTER 

(Song  from  "Youth  will  be  Served*  ) 

I  DREAMED  that  you  wrote  me  a  letter, 
And  said  what  I  fain  would  hear  ; 

But  you  told  it  me  far,  far  better 
Than  ever  I  phrased  it,  dear. 

For  the  words  had  the  feeling  of  kisses, 
And  your  voice  did  really  seem 

To  be  speaking  them, — what  one  misses 
In  the  letters  one  does  not  dream. 

You  told  me  over  and  over 

How  you  wanted  me  back  again. 

And  that's  enough  for  a  lover — 
It  counted  for  all  the  pain. 

Beautiful ! — perfect ! — better 
Than  anything  else  could  seem  ! — 

I  dreamed  that  you  wrote  me  a  letter  ,  . 
And  woke, — and  found  it  a  dream  ! 


THE  GOLDEN  HOUR 

(Song  from  "  Youth  will  be  Served  ") 

THOUGH  all  the  skies  are  clouded, 
Though  all  the  portents  lower, 

Somewhere,  to  some  one, 
This  is  the  Golden  Hour. 

The  Hour  that  comes  softly 

To  women  and  to  men, 
Who  only  know,  thereafter, 

That  they  were  happy — then. 

No  heart  may  know  its  coming, 
Nor  match  its  passing  glow  ; 

Sudden,  divine,  untainted, 
It  crowns  them  ere  they  know. 

For  though  the  present  brings  us 

No  joy  for  us  to  grasp, 
Be  sure  the  Golden  Hour 

Has  some  soul  in  its  clasp. 

And  while  the  night  is  darkest, 
And  though  thine  heart  repines, 

Somewhere,  to  some  one, 
The  Golden  Hour  shines  ! 


THE  GIFT 

(Song  from  "  Youth  will  be  Served  ") 

WHAT  shall  I  give  thee  ? 

Wouldst  thou  have  the  kingdoms  of  the  World 
To  hold  between  thy  tender  hands  ? 

Behold  !  their  weight  and  power  would  bruise  thee  ! 
What  shall  I  give  thee  ? 
For  I  must  leave  thee, 

And  we  must  part.  .  .  . 
For  parting  gift  what  shall  I  give  thee  ? 

Thou  hast  my  heart. 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ? 

Wouldst  thou  have  the  Heavens  of  thy  God 
To  taste  and  try  their  perfect  bliss  ? 

Behold  !  their  immortality  would  wound  thy  human  tender- 
ness. 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ? 
For  I  must  leave  thee, 

And  we  must  part.  .  .  . 
For  parting  gift  what  shall  I  give  thee  ? 

Thou  hast  my  heart. 


SAINT  ANTHONY 

HE  bent  above  the  written  scroll, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
As  one  whose  task  demands  his  soul. 
And  from  the  Chapel  porch  anon 
The  weary  chant  went  ever  on, 
"  Miserere  Domine." 

The  chanting  floated  on  the  air — 
Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
Towards  him,  like  a  broken  prayer. 
And  then  he  raised  his  patient  head, 
And  with  the  absent  service  said, 
"  Miserere  Domine." 

Sometimes  across  his  dazzled  eyes, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
There  flashed  the  beauty  of  the  skies. 
And  then  his  manhood  yearned  away, 
Until  his  lips  forgot  to  pray, 

"  Miserere  Domine." 

From  common  things  his  heart  took  flame, 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
When  through  his  window's  arch  as  frame 
Liquid  with  sunset  was  the  sky, 
And  all  his  heart  went  in  the  cry, 
"  Miserere  Domine  !  " 
53 


54  SAINT  ANTHONY 

His  pulses  throbbed  to  distant  strains, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
Of  music  on  the  battle-plains. 
And  through  the  Brothers'  peaceful  psalms 
His  fancy  heard  the  call  to  arms. 
Miserere  Domine. 

He  loved  the  warrior  planet  Mars, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 

He  watched  God's  army  of  the  stars 

Through  Heaven  take  their  nightly  march, 

Framed  in  his  window's  solemn  arch. 

Miserere  Domine. 

Through  growing  passions  year  by  year, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
He  strove  and  scourged  in  pious  fear. 
And  while  his  pulses  throbbed  with  fire 
He  prayed  against  his  own  desire, 
"  Miserere  Domine  !  " 

From  morn  to  night  he  warred  within, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
And  brooded  on  his  dearest  sin. 
He  traced  his  penitence  on  sand, 
And  Satan  stood  at  his  right  hand. 
Miserere  Domine. 

"  Our  brother  faints,"  the  Abbot  said, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
"  His  labour  bows  his  youthful  head. 
Now  rest  thee,  son  ;  weak  flesh  must  spare, 
Go  forth  and  breathe  God's  freer  air." 
Miserere  Domine. 


SAINT  ANTHONY  55 

At  dewfall,  when  the  light  grew  dim, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
He  heard  them  raise  the  vesper  hymn, 
And  passing  through  the  iron  gate 
He  sighed,  as  if  aware  of  fate, 
"  Miserere  Domine  !  " 

The  twilight  slopes  were  fresh  and  sweet, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
He  went  with  unaccustomed  feet 
Across  the  fragrance-breathing  land, — 
And  Satan  went  at  his  right  hand. 
Miserere  Domine. 

At  outskirt  of  a  little  wood, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
His  straying  feet  arrested  stood. 
Such  peace  was  on  its  gleam  and  gloom 
It  lay  upon  his  heart  like  doom. 
Miserere  Domine. 

He  sighed  "  If  Nature  might  suffice  !  " 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony. — 
"  Dear  God,  have  I  found  Paradise  ?  " 
Then,  in  a  thought  he  dared  not  breathe, 
"  But  what  were  Eden  without  Eve  ?  " 
Miserere  Domine. 

He  bent  his  guilty  face  to  earth, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
The  far-off  heaven  seemed  little  worth. 
Seeking  in  sin  for  sin's  release 
His  passion  jarred  on  Nature's  peace. 
Miserere  Domine. 


56  SAINT  ANTHONY 

His  hot  lips  framed  a  prayer  of  dread, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
"  The  Devil  hear  me  in  God's  stead  !  " 
And  even  as  he  praying  stood 
There  came  a  swift  step  through  the  wood. 
Miserere  Domine. 

A  white  robe  gleamed  against  the  green, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
And  then  a  slender  figure  seen, 
As  through  the  tangled  underwaste 
A  girl  came  running  in  full  haste. 
Miserere  Domine. 

He  shrank  in  sudden  dread  and  fear, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
But  as  the  maiden  came  more  near 
His  terror  soothed  itself  to  find 
No  phantom  to  appal  his  mind. 
Miserere  Domine. 

The  sweet  face  flashed  a  moment  by, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
And  vaguely  sprang  a  memory, 
Half-known  to  his  unconscious  sense 
Her  girlhood's  happy  ignorance. 
Miserere  Domine. 

Twice  at  the  Festivals,  by  grace, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
Across  the  Church  he  saw  her  face. 
A  novice  at  the  Nunnery 
Scarce  half  a  mile  away,  was  she. 
Miserere  Domine. 


SAINT  ANTHONY  57 

Some  freak  of  freedom  chance  did  aid, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 

Had  tempted  for  an  hour  the  maid 

To  'scape  the  Convent's  narrow  rule, 

And  wander  like  a  child  from  school. 

Miserere  Domine. 

So  safe  the  silent  wood  appeared, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
It  was  but  little  that  she  feared. 
In  all  God's  lovely  world,  what  ill 
Should  chance,  though  she  should  have  her  will  ? 
Miserere  Domine. 

And  now  there  flashed  across  her  sight, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
The  warning  of  the  fading  light. 
Fleet-footed  as  a  deer  she  sought 
The  shelter  that  the  Convent  brought. 
Miserere  Domine. 

With  quick  shy  eyes  that  dared  but  glance, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
She  eyed  her  unknown  foe  askance. 
Black  on  the  sunset's  aftermath 
The  Monk's  tall  figure  barred  her  path. 
Miserere  Domine. 

He  moved  not.    With  a  new  surprise, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
She  met  the  warning  of  his  eyes, 
And  faltered,  pausing  in  the  grass, 
"  Father,  I  pray  you  let  me  pass  !  " 
Miserere  Domine. 


58  SAINT  ANTHONY 

His  strong  frame  trembled  and  grew  weak, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
And  twice  his  dry  lips  strove  to  speak. 
"  Thou  shall  not  pass,"  full  hoarse  said  he, 
"  Till  I  have  all  my  will  of  thee." 
Miserere  Domine. 

The  growing  fear  within  her  eyes, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
Welled  up  and  drowned  her  first  surprise. 
The  growing  fear  within  her  heart 
Made  all  her  healthful  pulses  start. 
Miserere  Domine. 

In  gathering  shadows  where  she  stood, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
Night  crept  behind  her  through  the  wood  ; 
And  full  against  the  dying  day 
That  sombre  figure  barred  the  way. 
Miserere  Domine. 

"  Thy  words,"  she  gasped,  "  are  wild  and  dread  ! 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
"  Thou  knowest  not  what  thou  hast  said. 
Am  I  not  vowed  to  Heavenly  state  ? 
And  thou  art  Monk,  and  celebate  !  " 
Miserere  Domine. 

His  breath  was  on  her  face  like  flame, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
Half  blind  she  turned  the  way  she  came. 
But  swifter  still  his  strong  hand  clasped 
Her  gown,  and  rent  it  as  he  grasped. 
Miserere  Domine. 


SAINT  ANTHONY  59 

She  wrenched  her  tattered  kirtle  free, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 

And  through  the  rent  his  glance  could  see 

Her  panting  breasts  that  fall  and  rise, 

And  all  Hell  smouldered  in  his  eyes, 

Miserere  Domine. 

He  set  his  white  face  to  her  fear, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
I  know  Hell  lies  between  us  here, 
But  I  am  man,  and  woman  thou, 
And  who  shall  know  the  broken  vow  ?  " 
Miserere  Domine. 

He  set  his  eyes  upon  her  breast, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 

And  near  and  nearer  still  he  pressed. 

"  Pray  God  that  He  have  mercy  on 

Thy  maidenhood — for  I  will  none  !  " 

Miserere  Domine. 

He  set  his  hand  against  her  throat, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
His  lustful  eyes  already  gloat 
On  the  torn  vesture  that  with  haste 
She  wraps  in  vain  about  her  waist. 
Miserere  Domine. 

As  night  came  down  across  the  sky, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
There  rang  a  sudden  wailing  cry. 
It  died  against  the  solitude, 
Lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  wood. 
Miserere  Domine. 


60  SAINT  ANTHONY 

As  night  came  up  along  the  ground, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
The  Nuns  stood  awestruck  at  a  sound, 
Soft  hands  that  tore  the  Convent  gate, 
And  wailing  that  cried  out  on  Fate. 
Miserere  Domine. 

And  then  mad  laughter,  and  a  word, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 

That  stayed  the  breath  of  those  that  heard. 

With  prayers  to  save  if  this  were  sin, 

They  oped  the  gate — and  took  her  in. 

Miserere  Domine. 

She  tossed  through  fever-haunted  days, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
And  broken  nights  of  sleepless  craze. 
Till  the  Nuns  prayed  beneath  their  breath 
That  God  would  grant  a  speedy  death. 
Miserere  Domine. 

Until  the  spirit  found  its  wings, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
They  listened  to  her  muttermgs. 
What  ill  had  chanced  they  might  not  tell, 
Nor  dared  to  think  of  what  befell. 
Miserere  Domine. 

One  word  came  from  the  fevered  lips, 

"  Anthony, — Monk  Anthony  !  " 
Thrown  up  from  out  the  soul's  eclipse. 
The  Abbess  caught  a  fainter  moan — 
"  0  God,  his  eyes  were  Satan's  own  !  " 
Miserere  Domine. 


SAINT  ANTHONY  61 

Meantime  across  the  quiet  air, — 
Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
They  heard  a  bell  that  called  to  prayer, 
Through  pious  days  whose  fragrance  fill 
The  Monastery  on  the  hill. 
Miserere  Domine. 

That  night  of  nameless  terror,  late, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
The  youngest  Brother  passed  the  gate. 
"  What  ails  thee,  son  ?  "  the  Abbot  said, 
"  Thine  eyes  look  strange  as  look  the  dead  !  " 
Miserere  Domine. 

He  answered  with  the  calm  of  death, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
"  If  I  look  strangely,  as  thou  saith, 
Father,  'tis  little  wonderment, 
For  I  am  sad  and  sorely  spent. 
Miserere  Domine ! 

"  To  scourge  and  try  me  in  His  wrath  " — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
"  God  put  temptation  in  my  path. 
My  weak  flesh  urged  me  to  transgress 
As  Christ's  did  in  the  Wilderness. 
Miserere  Domine  !  " 

The  Abbot's  eyes  were  blurred  and  dim, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
"  O  son,  thou  triumphest  through  Him  ! 
Great  glory,  greater  than  his  pain, 
Shall  he  who  overcomest  gain  !  " 
Miserere  Domine. 


62  SAINT  ANTHONY 

He  bowed  his  head  for  all  to  see, — 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
With  meekness  and  humility. 
Great  was  the  joy  of  those  who  heard 
The  story  that  their  wonder  stirred. 
Miserere  Domine. 

With  lips  that  faltered  not,  he  told— 

Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
And  they  repeat  it  manifold  ; 
Of  how  the  youngest  Monk  withstood 
Satan's  temptation  in  the  wood. 
Miserere  Domine. 

A  woman,  wondrous  fair  to  see, — 
Anthony,  Monk  Anthony, — 
He  had  resisted  steadfastly. 
And  as  he  told  the  fabled  scene, 
He  heard  the  Devil  laugh  between. 
Miserere  Domine. 

The  years  roll  up  his  praise  anew, — 

Anthony,  Saint  Anthony  ! — 
From  Monk  to  Monk  the  story  flew. 
They  pray,  "  When  faith  and  strength  grow  dim, 
God  grant  that  we  be  like  to  him." 
Miserere  Domine  ! 


AN  UNBLEST  PRAYER 

("  Blessed  it  he  who  expecteth  nothing,  (or  he  shall  not  be  disappointed. 

THE  DEVIL'S  BEATITUDE) 

I  DESIRE  the  stir  in  the  sap  of  Spring — 
The  pulse  of  pain  in  the  quickened  blood  ; 

The  rush  of  water,  the  whirr  of  wing, — 
All  that  makes  life  so  greatly  good. 

The  first  faint  flashes  of  conscious  sense, 

The  prospect  widening  to  immense, 

The  glory  of  God  in  Man's  impotence, 
At  one  with  Nature  in  savage  mood. 

I  desire  the  red  of  a  woman's  kisses, 
The  dreamless  slumber  between  her  breasts  ; — 

To  rest  like  a  god,  and  to  know  what  bliss  is, 
The  whole  world  bound  to  my  heart's  behests. 

Till  deified  by  the  passion's  splendour 

I  wrest  the  seal  of  the  last  surrender 

From  limbs  grown  supple  and  warm  to  render 
The  fruit  forbidden  my  heart  requests. 

I  desire  the  breath  of  the  Autumn  weather, 
The  drunken  joy  of  the  shouting  wind  ; 

To  be  but  spirits  of  storm  together 

Till  the  man  in  me  shall  forget  he  sinned. 

Swept  clean  from  self  as  the  clouds  are  driven 

From  out  the  vault  of  the  rain-washed  Heaven  ; 

Freed  from  the  soil  of  the  former  leaven, 
As  rotten  leaves  on  the  trees  are  thinned. 
63 


64  AN  UNBLEST  PRAYER 

I  desire  to  be  as  the  Gods  of  old, 
With  a  beauty  lost  to  the  world  since  then, 

Face  and  figure  of  perfect  mould, 
A  joy  to  myself  and  my  fellow  men. 

Ah,  once  to  stand  as  a  God  might  do, 

With  life  exultant  to  thrill  me  through  ! 

The  joys  of  Earth  and  of  Heaven  too 
Were  mine  for  the  threescore  years  and  ten. 

I  desire  the  joy  of  the  finished  deed, 

The  power  of  knowledge,  the  strength  it  brings, 
To  reap  the  fruit  of  another's  seed, 

To  grasp  the  wealth  that  is  more  than  kings'. 
That  the  panting  life  in  my  veins  may  be 
Allowed  full  scope  for  its  sovereignty, 
And  greed  of  Nature  may  find  in  me 

The  satisfaction  of  all  fair  things. 

'  Thou  shall  not  have  it ! — away  in  Heaven 
They  keep  these  gifts  till  the  Second  Birth. 

Stored  up,  maybe,  for  the  great  Forgiven — 
For  those  who  never  Desired  on  Earth. 

But  thou  shalt  have — an  incessant  tire, 

The  dread  of  water,  the  pain  of  fire, 

And  the  cureless  disease  that  men  call  Desire, 
'Mid  tragic  laughter  and  joyless  mirth  I  " 


LINDA 

(For  an  Unpainted  Picture) 

THEY  turned  her  out  into  the  streets 

Because  they  said  she  sinned — 
Having  forced  their  own  upon  her. 
She  went  from  depth  to  depth,  until  her  feet  were  bare, 
Her  hands  were  claws. — But  in  those  claws 

She  clasped  her  violin, 
And  made  such  music  as  drew  tears 
Even  as  in  her  brief,  bright  stage  career 
On  platforms  set  above  the  heads  of  men. 


At  last  those  bare  feet  ran  into  the  arms  of  death, 
And  those  who  hunted  her  said,  "  Certainly 

Linda  has  gone  to  hell." 
Take  back  thy  daughter,  Devil. 


Satan  laughed,  and  took  an  upward  flight 
Through  rarer  air  he  had  not  tasted  since  his  fall, 

With  Linda  in  his  arms. 
And  at  the  Gate  he  laughed  again  to  see 

Peter's  shocked  face. 

I  bring  a  gift,"  he  said,  "  who  never  gave 
A  gift  to  God  before.  .  .  .  This  is  my  daughter  !  " 


66  LINDA 

The  cloudy  wings  drew  near  about  her — 
Hosts  of  angel  faces  looked  upon  her — 

Barefoot  she  stood  on  gold 
Her  rags  a-flutter  in  a  windless  air, 

And  kissed  her  violin. 
Linda,  with  her  little  tortured  face 
Twisted  with  agony  of  earth 
Until  the  youth  seemed  twisted  out  of  it, 
Amongst  a  crowd  of  curious  Angels, 

Began  to  play. 

And  in  the  heart  of  Heaven,  where  was  God, 
There  rose  that  music  of  the  Earth 
Which  we  hear  daily  (but  they  never  hear 
In  Heaven),  full  of  pain  and  love,  and  rapture, 
And  the  strange  thing  called  Romance. 

There  rose  a  sound  of  weeping  up  to  God — 
The  weeping  of  His  hosts  who  never  weep. 

And  in  the  midst 

Linda,  with  her  little  tortured  face 
Bent  sideways  on  the  violin, 

Stood  still  and  played. 


A  BEAD-ROLL 

WHAT  has  become  of  our  dreams  ? — our  dreams, 
Those  golden  vistas  and  rainbow  gleams  ! — 

They  are  safe  in  Heaven  beyond  our  reach — 
Oh  what  has  become  of  our  dreams  ? 

What  has  become  of  our  hopes  ? — our  hopes 
Are  strands  just  clinging  in  broken  ropes. 

We  shall  fall  as  the  sever 'd  cable  parts — 
Oh  what  has  become  of  our  hopes  ? 

What  has  become  of  our  selves  ? — our  selves, 
Those  dusty  volumes  on  unused  shelves  ? 

They  are  books  that  no  man  has  cared  to  read — 
Oh  what  has  become  of  our  selves  ? 

What  has  become  of  our  loves  ? — our  loves 
That  were  to  be  true  as  the  turtle  dove's  ! 

They  are  grown  too  cheap  for  a  passing  thought- 
Oh  what  has  become  of  our  loves  ? 

What  has  become  of  our  souls  ?  — our  souls  ! 
Nay,  thou  and  I  have  no  deathless  goals — 

We  are  dust,  and  shall  turn  to  dust  again — 
Oh  what  has  become  of  our  souls  ? 

The  God  in  whom  we  believe — believe 
As  saints  the  sacrament  they  receive, 

Looks  down  unmoved  on  the  foolish  cry — 
But  the  Devil  whispers,  "  I  grieve  !  " 
67 


FOR  A  CHILD 

(A  Heresy) 

DEAR  God,  I  pray  for  Maisie  ! 
She  is  so  little  in  this  world  we  know, 
Her  tiny  feet  have  yet  so  far  to  go, 
That  I  implore  a  grassy  road  for  them. 
If  she  wears  jewels,  let  the  diadem 
Be  light  as  dewdrops  on  the  kindly  sod — 
Give  her  the  good  things  of  the  world,  dear  God  ! 


I  pray,  I  beg  for  Maisie  ! 
Since  to  be  happy  is  most  natural 
Give  her  the  simple  joys  that  Eve  let  fall. 

I,  who  have  lived  so  long  where  no  cloud  lifts, 
Have  learned  the  value  of  Thy  sinless  gifts. 
Virtue  was  never  taught  us  by  the  rod. — 
Give  her  the  good  things  of  the  world,  dear  God  ! 


I  kneel  and  pray  for  Maisie  ! 
Give  her  the  right  to  play  a  little  while — 
Give  her  the  blessed  pause  in  life,  and  smile 
When  she  rejoices  in  her  youth  and  health — 
Give  her  sweet  exercise,  and  so  much  wealth 
As  may  assure  these  blessings  at  her  nod. — 
Give  her  the  good  things  of  the  world,  dear  God 
68 


FOR  A  CHILD  69 

I  lift  my  hands  for  Maisie  ! 

All  love  of  lovely  things,  all  daily  grace, 

Hast  Thou  not  bound  within  the  guinea's  space  ? 
Do  not  Thy  workers  look  with  wistful  eyes 
For  ease  and  air  beneath  Thy  larger  skies  ? 

Is  it  so  much  to  ask  ? — Just  common  things 

Named  daily  as  the  right  of  all  Thy  kings, — 
The  sun  in  some  fair  country  where  he  shines 
More  faithfully  than  ours  ; — sweet  food  and  wines  ; — 

The  touch  of  richer  stuffs,  the  sheen  of  silk, 

Full-blooded  as  the  poppy,  white  as  milk. — 
We  languish  sterilely — make  her  a  bride  ; 
We  trudge  afoot — give  her  a  horse  to  ride  ; 
(And  ah  !  the  joy  of  some  kind,  willing  brute, 
The  suppled  limbs,  the  pleasure  that  is  mute  !) 

These  are  Thy  luxuries,  but  Thou  of  old 

Gave  these  to  man  e'er  man  bartered  for  gold 
Sweet  sounds  and  scents,  sights  of  Thine  Earth  untrod. — 
Spare  Maisie  poverty's  most  useless  rod — 
Let  her  tread  as  Thy  queens  upon  Thy  sod — 
Give  her  the  good  things  of  this  world,  dear  God  ! 


THE  AVIATORS 

(1911) 

FLY  !    They  are  trying  to  fly  ! 
Widespread  wings  on  the  lift  of  the  morning, 
Drooped  tail-feathers  to  steer  us  onward, 
Some  sixth  sense  for  the  least  wind-warning, 

The  birds  of  the  air  go  by. 

And  oh  !  but  the  eyes  of  the  birds  are  glancing 
With  wide  amazement,  bewildered  gazing, 
To  see  the  sweep  of  alien  pinions 
Thrashing  the  air  with  effort  amazing, 
Earth's  upheavals  of  earth's  own  minions — 
Is  this  the  way  of  their  science-advancing  ? 
Fly  !    They  are  trying  to  fly  ! 

With  one  swift  spring  of  the  feet  and  shoulder. 
With  one  strong  impulse  of  flapping  wings — 
The  tail  held  downward  to  break  the  pressure — 

The  bird  of  the  air  uplifts,  upsprings  ! 
And  then,  resisting  the  impact,  bolder. 
Beating  time  to  a  golden  measure, 
We  watch  the  eddies — we  feel  the  current. 
We  press  a  pinion  at  perfect  angle, 
And  out  of  the  inchoate,  windy  tangle 

The  songster  soars  and  sings  ! 
70 


THE  AVIATORS  71 

Rising,  falling,  resting  on  eddies, 

Using  our  wings  and  our  feet  and  our  bodies, 

As  interdependent  things  ! 

When  will  they  learn  of  us  ?    When  will  they  turn  with  us  ? 
Each  part  perfect,  and  free  of  the  other, 
In  one  great  harmony,  under  and  over, 

The  beautiful,  single  wings  ! 

With  a  sudden  rush,  and  a  spring  to  the  sky, 
With  rigid  wings,  and  a  whirring  thunder, 

The  sons  of  the  earth  go  by. 
Breaking  and  boring  the  air  in  sunder, 
Cleaving  their  way  by  a  force  unknown, 
By  motive  power  that  is  not  their  own, 
Clumsily  linked  by  a  brain  to  guide — 
Oh  brothers,  what  sight  in  the  world  beside 

Is  like  this  scaling  the  sky  ? 
Fighting  the  currents — flung  back  to  earth 
By  the  mocking  winds  in  their  cruel  mirth — 
When  will  they  learn  of  us  ?    When  will  they  turn  with  us  ? 
Rigid  wings  and  a  nerveless  guide, 
For  perfect  balance  and  skill  beside. 
We  are  one  with  our  conquered  element — 
They,  with  a  shriek  and  a  strength  misspent, 
Fight  blindfold — till  a  hair's-breadth  awry, 
Something  has  passed  us — gone,  in  a  breath — 
Flashed  back  to  earth  and  the  arms  of  death  ! 

Fly  !    They  are  trying  to  fly  ! 


SESTINA 

(The  Reawakening  of  Desire) 

GlVE  me  a  love-lock  of  your  hair's  dull  gold — 
To  string  the  broken  sequence  of  my  lyre 

And  I  will  sing  you  such  a  dreamy  song. 
As  stirred  your  languid  blood  to  flame  of  old — 
Nay,  who  can  tell  but  we  may  wake  Desire 

Whose  weary  eyes  have  slumbered  for  so  long  ? 

Is  it  so  long  ago,  so  very  long, 
Since  we  believed  a  tinsel  love  true  gold, 
And  bartered  better  things  for  the  desire  ? 
To-day  we  prove  that  Love  is  but  a  liar, 
Though  sweet  the  story  that  he  told  of  old, 
Though  sweet  the  music  of  his  Matins-song. 

Alas  so  sweet !   I  cannot  sing  the  song 
We  sang  ;   I  grow  so  weary — it  is  long, 

So  long  to-day  to  what  it  seemed  of  old, 

Or  else  the  glimmer  of  the  alien  gold 
Confuses  all  the  strings  of  this  my  lyre. 
Listen  ;  is  this  the  song  that  you  desire  ? 

0  Love,  forget  the  music,  my  desire 

Has  grown  too  mighty  for  the  foolish  song  ! 

And  were  my  hands  encumbered  with  the  lyre 

How  could  they  reach  your  own  ?  the  hands  that  long 

To  lose  themselves  among  your  wealth  of  gold, 

The  bright  soft  tresses  lovely  as  of  old  ! 
72 


SESTINA  73 

How  did  we  dream  that  love  was  sweet  of  old  ? 

Oh  hasten,  hasten,  while  the  new  desire 
Would  barter  heaven  for  your  hair's  dull  gold, 

And  liquid  voice  more  sweet  than  any  song — 
Or  else  the  milk-white  breast  for  which  I  long 
As  longs  the  unsung  poem  for  the  lyre. 

Break  all  the  tuneless  stringing  of  the  lyre 
And  fling  it  by.    The  sweetness  known  of  old 

Comes  back  to  us  again  as  borne  along 
By  the  unconquered  passion  of  Desire, 

Who  wakes  at  last,  and  thrills  us  with  his  song, 
And  glorifies  us  with  his  burning  gold. 

For  this  of  old  was  promised  by  Desire, 

For  this  we  swept  the  lyre  and  sang  the  song, 
Danae  waited  long  her  shower  of  gold. 


A  ROUNDEL 

(In  Memoriam  :  E.  L. ) 

AH,  happy  Death,  whose  touch  sublime 
Can  still  the  pain  of  mortal  breath  ! — 
The  only  friend  more  strong  than  Time. 
Ah,  happy  Death  ! 

There  are  no  love-thorns  in  thy  wreath,- 

Thy  gracious  kiss  is  not  a  crime 
That  one  regret  should  lurk  beneath. 

To  weary  life  gone  past  its  prime 

What  is  it  that  thy  silence  saith  ? 
"  Sleep  deep  into  a  sweeter  clime  !  " — 
Ah,  happy  Death  ! 


SONNET 

I  THOUGHT  of  you  as  children  think  of  toys 
When  first  we  drifted  on  each  other's  path, 
Careless  of  any  bitter  aftermath 

That  strikes  a  silence  on  a  loud  world's  noise. — 

And  then  I  thought  of  you  for  secret  joys 
That  grew  too  shyly  to  incur  the  wrath 
Of  some  great  God  whose  greater  altar  hath 

The  right  to  burn  such  tricks  of  girls  and  boys.- 

Lastly  I  thought  of  you  because  I  must, 
And  on  a  sudden  day  I  faced  despair — 

The  brief  bright  roses  fading  in  the  dust, 
The  sunlight  gone  from  all  the  outer  air  ; — 
So  mortals  fare  that  have  been  deified.  .  . 

And  now  I  think  of  you  as  one  who  died. 


75 


ROUNDEL 

(To  a  Girl  Writer) 

FORGET  thy  pain,  and  dream  that  thou  art  dead 
With  all  thy  words,  both  sweet  and  bitter,  said  ; — 
Were  it  not  better  that  thine  eyes  were  dim 
Under  the  grass  that  springtide  keeps  so  trim 
And  violets  abloom  about  thine  head  ? 

Silence  shall  be  thy  bedfellow  instead 
Of  restless  Love  whose  pulses  ran  so  red 

That  thou  might  never,  hand  in  hand  with  him, 
Forget  thy  pain. 

I  have  no  better  wish  than  that  thou  wed 
Even  in  dreams  with  Death,  whose  kisses  shed 

A  magic  balm  o'er  every  quiet  limb. 

So  dream  ! — until  the  dream's  uncertain  rim 
Touches  the  real,  and  thou,  comforted, 
Forget  thy  pain  ! 


NEMO  OMNIBUS  HORIS  SAPIT 

(Acrostic) 

N  OW  that  the  blossoming  limes  are  swee  T 
E  ven  full  fain  to  sing  am  I  ; 
M  y  pulses  slowly,  lazily  lea  P 
O  ut  to  the  whole  world's  ari  A. 

0  languid  scents  of  honeyed  bhs  S  ! — 

M  ake  haste,  my  lips,  and  learn  to  kis  S  ! — 
N  ightingales  woo  (more  wise  than  I  !) 

1  nto  the  red  day's  waking  choi  R, — 
(B  irds,  are  ye  suave,  out-chorused  s  O  ?) 
U  ntil  the  noontide  bids  them  hus  H  ! 

S   o  fair  a  Summer  shown  to  u  S 

H  as  hardly  been  for  me  or  yo  U, 

0  r  since  from  out  a  strong  man's  ri  B 
R  ose  Eve  to  answer  "  This  is  I  !  " 

1  n  the  amazement  of  the  Ma  N. 

S    ummer  in  Eden,  ere  the  Doo  M  ! 

S   pring  showed  me  what  a  man  should  d  0 — 

A  nd  now  the  languorous  lime-tree  to  0 

P    uts  on  her  honeyed,  luscious  bloo  M, 

I    am  full  fain  to  sing  and  lov  E 

T  he  same  as  when  this  World  bega  N  ! 


77 


WINTER 

(The  Latest  Thing  in  Vers  Libres) 

THE  low  skies  are  full  of  snow. 

Every  branch  stands  out  like  a  picture  in  stereoscope. 
For  the  wind  is  dead — dead  as  the  Earth. 
There  is  no  sound  across  the  frozen  fields  ; 
The  cattle  keep  under  the  high  banks  for  warmth, 
Their  breath  hanging  on  the  air. 

(This  is  a  poem  after  the  modem  method,  and  I  do  not  think 
much  of  it.) 


The  sun  has  gone. 

He  did  not  appear  to  set,  but  the  clouds  blotted  him  out  of 

the  sky. 

There  is  visible  darkness  upon  the  landscape. 
A  few  flakes  fall — 
Now  the  snow  is  coming — coming — in  great  blots  that  are  no 

longer  white. 
But  the  sky  does  not  lighten — there  is  more  and  more  snow 

waiting  to  fall — 

Layers  of  snow  in  the  upper  air. 
(I  could  go  on  like  this  for  hours,  without  feet  or  rhythm.) 


A  cart  drives  by, 

Its  wheels  muffled  in  snow. 


WINTER  79 

It  seems  to  come  from  nowhere  and  to  pass  into  infinity. 
And  this  is  Winter. 

(How  extremely  easy  it  is  to  write  a  poem  after  the  modern 
method  !) 


DEAD-A  SUBALTERN 

(German  War,  1914) 

THE  great  things  of  the  World  come  suddenly, 
With  God  behind  them. 

For  a  space  of  years 

He  lived  any  man's  life — the  here  and  there 
Of  social  contact,  unrecorded  things, — 
The  round  of  drill  and  its  monotony  ; — 
No  worse,  no  better,  that  a  woman's  tears 
Washed  once  over  his  life  in  fierce  despair. 
Men  are  but  men, — shall  common  clay  be  kings  ? 
But  then  some  twist  about  the  cord  of  Fate 
Swept  him  and  others  through  death's  narrow  gate 
Where  none  should  find  them. — 
The  course  of  things  called  him  to  fight  and  die — 
A  life  spilt  for  a  Country  raised  this  man 
From  out  his  little  life's  most  trifling  span. — 
The  great  things  of  the  World  came  suddenly 
With  God  behind  them. 


80 


GERMANY 

(1915) 

A  NATION  without  honour 

Who  breaks  her  written  word — 
The  stain  of  lies  upon  her, 

And  the  fetish  of  the  sword  ; 
No  crimes  too  low  or  bestial 

To  strew  the  path  she  trod, — 
She  prates  of  aid  celestial, 

And  mocks  her  outraged  God. 

Shrewd  with  the  market  manner 

To  grasp  the  use  of  cant, 
She  whines  across  her  banner 

Of  starving  babes  and  want ; — 
One  hand  held  out  for  mercies 

To  friend  and  foe  alike, 
While,  muttering  her  curses, 

The  other  waits  to  strike. 

Half  stupid  with  submission, 

Half  drugged  with  brutal  force, 
Her  people  by  tradition 

Move  on  their  passive  course  ; 
While  those  who  sold  and  bought  her, 

Her  rulers,  as  she  saith  ! — 
Draw  wealth  from  modes  of  slaughter, 

And  speculate  in  death. 
81 


82  GERMANY 

Gravely  the  Nations  see  her 

As  one  with  madness  curst — 
Frantic  with  pleas  to  free  her, 

Or  foaming  of  her  worst ; 
Who  lies  not,  does  not  alter, 

Who  dreads  not,  does  not  hate,- 
But  she,  with  hopes  that  falter, 

Shrieks  at  her  coming  fate. 

She  sowed  in  lamentation, 

And  reaps  in  bitter  mood 
Her  harvest  of  damnation 

Rich  with  her  children's  blood. 
The  verdict  passed  upon  her 

Is  branded  on  her  name — 
A  Nation  without  honour, 

A  people  without  shame. 


1916  RAIDS 
MORNING 

IT  was  in  the  middle  morning,  and  the  City  steamed  with 
work, — 

Factory,  and  office,  and  market  in  full  cry  ; 
Not  a  jar  to  stop  her  pendulum,  or  consciousness  of  jerk — 

But  a  little  silver  pencil  writing  death  across  the  sky. 

It  was  in  the  middle  morning,  and  the  guns  began  to  go — 
Factory,  and  office,  and  market  standing  by  ; 

Full  upon  the  cloudless  day  we  stared,  and  tried  to  know 
The  Things  that  looked  like  pencils  writing  death  across 
the  sky. 

Very  loud  upon  the  earth,  and  very  still  in  air, 

That  strangest  of  all  Wars  took  place  before  the  naked  eye — 
Only  by  a  puff  of  smoke  could  we  believe  their  share — 

Little  silver  pencils  writing  death  across  the  sky. 

Then — a  rocking,  ruined  wall — then — a  blazing  roof  ; 

Womenkmd  and  children  singled  here  and  there  to  die. 
Hellish  warfare  overhead, — devil-minded  proof — 

Little  silver  pencils  writing  "  Death  !  "  across  the  sky. 


84  1916  RAIDS 


NIGHT 

.  .  .  Beyond  midnight,  when  the  world  was  asleep, 
Came  a  sense  of  Something,  the  suggestion  of  a  tap. 

Beating  in  the  distance — made  the  startled  senses  leap — 
Dap  !  dap  !  on  the  horizon — dap  !  dap  ! 

.  .  .  Coming  nearer,  till  we  knew  it  for  the  guns — 
Settled  to  a  summons,  and  the  "  Take  cover  !  "  rang — 

Frightened  hands  that  fumble,  and  the  frightened  foot  that 

runs, — 
Clang  !  clang  !  tearing  the  night  up — clang  !  clang  ! 

.  .  .  Roaring  barrage,  till  the  dark  was  all  sound, — 
Rolling  of  the  Movables  through  the  troubled  street — 

That  was  Hyde  Park  Corner  answering  the  echoes  round — 
Beat !  beat !  heart,  are  you  stopping  ?    Beat !  beat ! 

.  .  .  Beyond  midnight,  and  the  scream  of  a  shell — 
Horror  coming  down  to  strike  us  blindly  in  the  dark — 

Something  louder  still  than  guns — a  shriek  out  of  Hell — 
Spattered  limbs   that   pulsed   but   now,   lying    still    and 
stark. 


WAYSIDE  SHRINES 

(1917) 

IN  England  now 
One  sees  the  frequent  wayside  shrine, 

And  though  none  bow 
Or  call  upon  them  as  divine, 

These  for  dead  Heroes  are  devised 
That  some  poor  heart  has  canonised. 

A  list  of  names — 
And  homely  flowers  set  beneath — 
And  though  none  claims 
A  halo  for  their  loyal  death, 

Yet  many  pause  to  breathe  a  pray'r 
And  read  the  Roll  of  Honour  there. 


A  THOUGHT  FOR  FRANCE 

(1918) 

To  die  in  the  great  blue  weather — 

To  die  in  the  Spring  ! — 
Thousands  and  thousands  together 

While  the  skylark  dares  to  sing. 

Ours  and  theirs  in  Thy  keeping, — 
Bomb,  and  shrapnel,  and  sword, — 

Bid  Thy  Heavens  be  weeping, 
Send  us  Thy  tears,  0  Lord  ! 

Rain  and  shadow  together, 
That  were  the  better  thing  .  .  . 

But  to  die  in  the  great  blue  weather — 
To  die  in  the  Spring  ! 


86 


BATH 

("  But  pray  ye  that  your  flight  be  not  in  the  Winter,  or  on  the 
Sabbath  day — " 

THEY  shall  call  her  the  City  of  Refuge, 
For  a  balm  for  the  weary  she  hath  ; 
And  he  who  is  journeying^deathwards 

Shall  find  hers  the  tenderest  path, 
When  the  light  on  her  lingers  and  presses 
With  gleams  like  a  thousand  caresses, 
And  God  leans  from  Heaven  and  blesses 
The  hills  above  Bath. 


In  the  morning,  when  sunshine  shall  find  her, 
And  deck  her  and  jewel  her  best ; 

Grey-walled,  with  the  shadows  behind  her, 
And  gold  of  the  sun  at  her  breast. 

Dark  archway  and  alley,  grown  hoary 

From  years  that  have  moulded  her  story, — 

She  glows  with  a  latter-day  glory, 
"  The  Queen  of  the  West." 


In  the  noon,  when  the  hum  of  her  traffic 
Is  lulled  to  the  drone  of  the  bee, 

And  over  her  stretches,  seraphic, 
A  sky  that  is  deep  as  the  sea, — 

87 


88  BATH 

When  the  hills  in  their  solemn  insistence 
Rise  up  into  infinite  distance, — 
Beyond  her  there  lies  no  existence, 
Nor  wish  to  be  free. 


At  evening,  when  shades  of  the  twilight 

Draw  silently  over  the  path, 
What  words  may  describe  or  express  right 

The  quiet  and  charm  that  she  hath  ? — 
Enshrouded  in  mists  of  the  river, 
Enfolded  in  shadows  that  quiver, 
And  watched  by  her  sentinels  ever, 
The  hills  above  Bath  ! 


At  night,  when  the  lamps  in  her  tremble 

As  if  with  reflection  of  day, 
And  flickering,  make  her  resemble 

The  ghost  of  a  City  in  grey, — 

Above  her  the  midnight  extending, 

Around  her  the  blackness  unending. 

While  with  false  light  her  terror  defending 

She  holds  them  at  bay. 

Aclimb  from  the  cup  where  she  nestles 

The  stranger  may  toil  if  he  wills, 
While  the  heart  in  him  throbs  as  he  wrestles, 

Forgetful  of  alien  ills, 

For  the  pause  on  the  summit  will  show  him 
A  sight  that  none  else  could  bestow  him — 
She  lieth  and  stretcheth  below  him 
Enthroned  in  her  hills. 


BATH  89 


Most  dear  to  the  soul  of  the  weary 

Is  quiet  and  rest  that  she  hath  ; — 
Most  dear,  when  existence  is  dreary, 
And  stony  and  troubled  the  path  ;- 
Beloved  of  the  morn  and  the  even, 
The  planets  and  pleiades  seven, 
And  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  Heaven 
The  hills  above  Bath. 


A  DEAD  WOMAN 

I  WAS  never  her  lover  ;  and  truly, 

You,  the  man  she  had  wed, 
Were  less  her  friend,  it  seems,  duly, 

Than  I,  and  .  .  .  Hush  !  she  is  dead. 

I  keep  on  hugging  your  marriage 
With  a  morbid  hunger  of  pain  ; — 

Was  she  stiff  and  shy  in  the  carriage  ? 
Did  you  kiss  her,  there  in  the  train  ? 

Though  you  married  her  just  for  pity 

Surely  you  loved  that  face  ! 
And  I— 'tis  a  doleful  ditty  !— 

Had  only  a  second  place. 

Twenty  year  since  you  wed  her — 

I  have  loved  her — how  long  ? — for  ten  ? 

How  often  our  vows  misled  her, — 
How  weary  she  grew  of  men  ! 

I  won  nothing  I  need  surrender, 
And  she  bore  your  name  in  your  house.- 

But  were  you,  her  husband,  tender  ? 
Did  she  miss  a  friend  in  your  vows  ? 
90 


A  DEAD  WOMAN  91 

Here  she  lies  beyond  us,  above  us, 

Past  mercy  and  past  despair, 
Closed  eyes  that  no  longer  love  us — 

Death's  hand  for  ours  on  her  hair. 

Neither  of  us  can  move  her — 

We  meet  so,  it  seems  at  the  end — 
I,  who  was  never  her  lover, 

And  you,  who  were  never  her  friend  ! 


DURBAN:  NATAL 

HER  flowers  have  no  scent  by  day, 

But  bright  and  deep  their  colours  glow ; 

And  buoyant  winds  that  never  chill 

Even  in  Winter,  ruffle  still 
The  wide  blue  waters  of  her  Bay. 

By  night  she  has  a  thousand  scents — 

A  City  builded  in  a  bower  ! 
Her  streets  are  redolent  of  rose, 
And  sweet  the  hours  of  repose 

With  odours  of  the  moon-flower. 

Her  fruits  and  flowers  grow  like  weeds 
With  prodigal  magnificence ; 
The  orange  and  poinsettia 
Ripen  and  fall  ungathered  there, 
And  'midst  her  plenty  no  one  heeds. 

She  seems  so  fair  from  Nature's  hand 
One  scarce  can  link  her  name  with  strife 
Between  the  wash  of  Southern  seas 
And  rustle  of  her  blossomed  trees 
She  dreams  away  enchanted  life. 

Without  her  sand-locked  harbour  glows 
The  sapphire  of  her  outer  bay. 
The  boastful  Nation  christens  her 
The  Garden  of  South  Africa — 
The  desert,  blooming  like  the  rose  ! 
92 


A  SEA-CAPTAIN 

BLUE  as  blue  seas,  and  dangerous  as  they 
To  take  the  least  unwary  by  surprise — 
Full  of  the  dancing  mischief  of  the  spray — 
So  are  your  eyes. 

Strong  as  the  master-music  of  the  wind 

That  drives  the  ships  whither  they  have  no  choice- 
Soft  as  the  wooing  one  for  which  Eve  sinn'd — 
So  is  your  voice. 

Full  of  the  wrecks  of  pleasures  long  past  by — 

In  which  how  many  women  played  their  part  ? — 
But  hungry  for  the  present  smile  or  sigh — 
So  is  your  heart. 

All  of  the  sea — the  sea  that  pities  not — 

In  whose  blue  eyes  the  very  sea  looks  through. 
You  have  no  heed  for  cruelties  forgot, 
The  sea  and  you. 


93 


LONDON'S  CHILD 

0  MY  Mother,  my  Queen,  my  Lover, 
Thou  who  holdest  my  soul  in  fee, 

Hast  thou  heard  me  afar  off  crying  ? 
Wouldst  thou  draw  me  whence  I  am  lying  ? 
Did  they  tell  thee  that  I  was  dying, — 
Thou,  my  Mother,  who  lovest  me  ? 

Take  me  back  to  thy  heart,  O  City  ! 

Open  thine  arms  and  take  me  in. 
Let  me  feel  that  my  heart  has  won  thee, 
Safe  from  exile  that  has  undone  me  ; 
Breathe  thy  poisonous  breath  upon  me, 

Whisper  me  of  thy  fiercest  sin. 

1  am  sick  for  thy  love,  my  Mother, 
Sick  am  I  of  thy  beauties  too. 

All  thy  children  are  aged  and  hoary, 
Draining  their  lives  for  thy  greater  glory, 
Writing  in  blood  thine  appalling  story. 
Bitter  is  this  that  thou  bidst  us  do  ! 

Thou  art  greatest  of  Cities  living, — 
Greater  even  than  Cities  dead, — 
Thou,  whose  Parks  are  thy  garden-spaces, — 
Thou,  whose  flowers  are  women's  faces, — 
Thou,  who  in  lark's  and  nightingale's  places 
Hast  thy  Poets  to  sing  instead. 
94 


LONDON'S  CHILD  95 

Have  they  told  thee  that  I  am  dying  ? 

I,  thy  child  who  have  worshipped  thee  ? 
Grant  me  a  grave  in  thine  own  dark  River 
So  deep  that  Fate  has  no  power  to  sever  ; 
Lay  me  close  to  thy  heart  for  ever, 

Thou,  my  Mother,  who  lovest  me. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TROPICS 

A  GIANT  moth  is  putting  out  the  lamp — 
My  food  is  in  possession  of  the  ant — 
And  a  troop  of  soldier-flies  have  pitched  their  camp 

On  the  journal  I  particularly  want. 
A  silver-tick  is  clinging  to  my  knee 
As  if  he  held  me  singularly  dear — 
But  all  such  things  are  trivial 
To  the  hideously  convivial 
Young  mosquito  singing  love-songs  in  my  ear  ! 

My  bath  is  full  of  may-bugs  to  the  brim 

When  I  want  to  take  my  early  morning  plunge, 
And  a  Nancy  spider  (little  luck  to  him  I) 

Has  taken  sole  possession  of  my  sponge. 
I  shake  the  hardback  beetles  from  my  brush 
Before  I  get  my  toilet  table  clear. — 

But  there's  one  I  dread  more  keenly — 
Never  contemplate  serenely — 
The  mosquito  singing  love-songs  in  my  ear ! 

Oh  I  think  of  countries  very  far  away 

Where  an  insect  causes  shrieks  of  wild  despair, 
And  I  wonder  what  the  devil  they  would  say 

To  the  three-inch  cockroach  crawling  'neath  my  chair 
The  bats  are  chasing  sandflies  in  the  roof, 
But  it's  not  their  clinging  talons  that  I  fear — 
I  know  it  heralds  stinging 
When  I  hear  the  fatal  tinging — 
The  mosquito  singing  love-songs  in  my  ear  ! 
96 


THE  DREAMER 

MY  life  is  an  enchanted  land, 

Where  flower  thoughts  are  growing. 
Between  the  banks  of  silver  sand, 
With  precious  stones  on  either  hand, 

I  hear  a  river  flowing, 
A  river  that  is  known  to  me, 
The  river  of  its  Poetry, 

With  gold  and  azure  glowing. 
My  life  is  an  enchanted  land, 

Where  flower  thoughts  are  growing. 

I  have  a  Castle  of  Delight, 

Wherein  I  dwell  at  leisure, 
Its  stones  are  dreams  unknown  to  sight, 
And  all  its  gardens  fiery  bright, 

A  store  of  endless  treasure. 
Each  day  is  an  untold  romance, 
And  every  night  so  sweet  a  trance, 

One  may  not  sleep  for  pleasure. 
/  have  a  Castle  of  Delight, 

Wherein  I  dwell  at  leisure. 

There  is  no  place  for  earthly  pain 

In  this  my  realm  of  glory, 
No  minor  in  the  singer's  strain, 
No  shadow  on  the  sunlit  plain, 

No  Winter,  cold  and  hoary  ; 
97 


98  THE  DREAMER 

The  Summer  reigns  for  ever  there, 
And  every  wind  that  moves  the  air 

Is  whispering  a  story, 
There  is  no  place  for  earthly  pain 

In  this  my  realm  of  glory. 

And  never  can  the  World  intrude, 

Its  troubles  reach  me  never ; 
Far,  far  away,  a  storm  may  brood, 
Or  tempests  gales  blow  rough  and  rude, 

'Tis  long  since  we  did  sever, 
I  know  it  not,  I  live  apart, 
Until  the  slumber  touch  my  heart, 

And  then  I  sleep  for  ever. 
But  never  can  the  IVorld  intrude, 

Its  troubles  reach  me  never. 

The  fairy  with  the  magic  wand, 

Who  spelled  me,  all  unknowing, 
Ordained  that  I  should  reap  the  gram, 
That  other  hands,  with  toil  and  pain, 

Were  half  a  life-time  sowing. 
All  lovely  things  were  made  for  me, 
And  all  sweet  airs  were  played  for  me, 

Heard  in  my  River's  flowing. 
My  life  is  an  enchanted  land, 

Where  flower  thoughts  are  growing. 


THE  NEW  EVE 

MEN'S  blood  runs  red  to  look  at  her, 

She  is  so  fair, 
From  arch  of  shapely  foot  to  crown 

Of  midnight  hair, 
And  gracious  curve  of  shapely  throat, 

And  shoulders  bare. 

Her  face  and  form  were  Motherhood 

When  maiden  still ; 
An  infinitely  tender  grace 

Beyond  her  will 
Draws  all  men's  hearts  to  cleave  to  her 

For  good  or  ill. 

She  makes  a  picture  of  herself 

With  limbs  at  rest ; — 
Anon  she  makes  a  sudden  stir, 

And  this  seems  best ; — 
My  passionate  divinity, 

Blest  and  unblest ! 

Brown  shadows  of  the  water-weed 

Lie  in  her  eyes  ; 
The^lids  droop  slightly,  and  the  line 

That  round  them  lies 
Follows  the  curve  that  makes  her  mouth 

A  shrine  of  sighs. 
99 


100  THE  NEW  EVE 

The  south  wind  echoes  in  her  voice, 

With  undertones 
Of  water  running  swiftly  by 

Over  smooth  stones. 
There  is  a  vague  regret  therein 

She  never  owns. 

The  lesser  natures  look  to  her 

And  draw  within 
Their  narrow  limits,  lest  her  eyes 

Their  hearts  should  win  : — 
My  passionate  divinity, 

Too  fair  to  sin  ! 

One  thought  instinct  is  hers,  unsaid 
Yet  half  expressed 

In  lovely  line  of  falling  waist 
And  swelling  breast 

That  is  so  full  of  promises — 
And  unpossessed. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  YOUNG  AGAIN 

I  WENT  back,  and  found  my  weariness 

Instead  of  pleasure  that  I  thought  to  find. 

Was  I  so  strong  of  old  to  face  distress 

That  the  joy  only  lingered  in  my  mind  ? 

I  prayed  for  youth  again  ;  the  gods  said  "  Yes." 

So  I  went  back  .  .  .  and  found  my  weariness. 

I  went  back,  and  found  the  olden  pain 
That  was  but  tolerable  when  it  passed. 
The  gods  were  merciful  in  their  disdain 
When  they  decreed  no  vivid  thing  should  last ! 
They  told  me  I  should  have  my  youth  again — 
I  went  back  .  .  .  and  found  the  olden  pain. 

I  went  back,  to  look  upon  my  love, 

And  stood  appalled  before  its  agony. 

Once  only  shall  a  life  be  staunch  enough 

To  try  such  anguish  as  awaited  me. 

I  dared  not  stretch  my  hand  its  fire  to  prove, 

When  I  went  back,  ashamed  before  my  love. 


101 


TRAGEDIES 

(From  "  Exile  ") 

A  PRETTY  woman  left  too  much  alone, 

Her  husband  playing  her  the  traitor's  part — 

A  child  misunderstood — a  horse  misused — 
These  wrong  God's  Universe  and  break  my  heart. 

The  sin  of  those  who  sit  in  Council-seats 
And  bring  red  ruin  on  the  helpless  throng — 

The  market-places  thronged  with  living  girls — 
These  make  the  scheme  of  all  creation  wrong. 

For  O  !  to  see  the  bluebells,  idly  picked, 

Flung  in  the  roadway  where  the  cattle  trod  ! — 

I  find  my  Heaven  turned  a  court  of  law, 
Man  the  defendant,  and  the  plaintiff,  God. 


102 


DEMOCRITUS 

("  I  teach  the  Doctrine  of  Atoms  ! ") 

AH,  my  Philosopher  ! 

Mockingly,  brightly, 
Teach  me  the  rule  of  life, — 

"  Take  the  World  lightly  !  " 

"  Sorrow  and  sin  maybe 
Round  us  are  living  ; — 

Give  then,  to  ease  the  pain, 
Give, — and  laugh  giving  ! 

"  What !  is  the  world  so  sad  ? — 

Bird,  bud,  and  flower 
Put  all  mankind  to  shame, 

Glad  in  their  hour. 

"  What !  is  no  thing  on  Earth 
Good  from  its  birthday  ? 

Live,  then,  like  Heaven's  God, 
Better  than  Earth  may  ! 

"  Gain  ends  where  living  ends — 
Cease  then  your  labours. 

Laughter  and  Charity 
Are  the  best  neighbours. 
103 


104  DEMOCRITUS 

"  Ah,  my  Philosophy  ! 

While  we  judge  rightly 
Of  the  poor  worth  of  life, 

Take  the  World  lightly  ! 


GOD 

(As  Rcnnie  knows  Him) 

THEY  make  me  go  to  bed  at  eight, 

And  say  my  prayers  all  out  loud — 
It's  dreffle  dark  when  it  gets  late, 
Like  one  big  cloud. 

I'd  be  afraid  of  all  the  land 

When  those  far-off  star-candles  shine, 
But  then  God  stretches  down  His  hand 
And  feels  for  mine. 

I  feel  it  there,  inside  my  own, 

And  hold  the  strong  kind  finger  tight — 
He  wouldn't  leave  me  all  alone 
Without  a  light ! 

I  know  He's  fond  of  little  boys — 

He  never  laughs  at  what  I've  said  ! 
He  understands  about  the  toys 
I  take  to  bed. 

There's  Jumbie,  with  his  head  askew, 

(I  like  him,  'cos  he's  been  so  ill ;) 
I've  asked  God  to  bless  Jumbie  too — 
I  know  He  will. 
105 


106  GOD 

If  Mother  hadn't  told  a  lot 

About  Him,  I'd  be  quite  alone  ; 
God's  'most  the  only  thing  I've  got 
Now  Mother's  gone. 

The  grown-up  people  come  and  stare, 

And  hear  me  gab'  a  hymn  in  half. 
(I  wouldn't  say  a  real  prayer 
Because  they'd  laugh.) 

They  whisper,  "  Rennie's  awful  good — 

He  doesn't  mind  about  the  dark  ! 
He'll  say  a  hymn  as  children  should — 
Now  just  you  hark  ! — 

"  And  then  he'll  drop  asleep,  you  know, 

Looking  an  angel — there,  he's  off !  " 
With  my  shut  eyes  I  watch  them  go, — 
I'm  glad  enough  ! 

And  no  one  seems  to  understand 

That  when  it's  dark,  and  I'm  alone, 
Why  then  God  stretches  down  His  hand 
And  finds  my  own. 


A  COLLIE  DOG 

(Written  for  a  Child) 

Two  brown  eyes  with  lights  of  amber, — 
Two  soft  ears  of  tawny  tan, — 

Four  strong  feet  that  climb  and  clamber, 
Truer  heart  than  beats  in  man  ; — 

Restless  limbs  forever  moving, — 
Waving  tail  for  flag  of  truce, — 

Just  a  dog,  supremely  loving, — 
This  is  Bruce. 

Only  see  him  fetch  and  carry, 
Eager,  waiting  for  the  word  ! 

He  is  not  the  one  to  tarry 

Once  the  welcome  "  Go  !  "  is  heard. 

There's  a  lesson  offered  to  us, 
Ready  with  our  glib  excuse 

When  a  duty  lies  before  us, — 
Unlike  Bruce. 

Ah,  old  boy  !  we  human  creatures 

Are  superior,  of  course, — 
Far  above  such  poor  dumb  teachers 

As  the  patient  dog  or  horse  ! 
Yet  perhaps  there  might  be  found  us 

An  example  for  our  use 
In  the  humbler  friends  around  us, 
Like  poor  Bruce. 
107 


108  A  COLLIE  DOG 

Are  we,  in  our  finer  notion 

Of  the  high  ground  where  we  stand, 

Capable  of  more  devotion 

Than  the  dog  who  licks  our  hand  ? 

Gladder  he  than  those  above  him 
If  he  only  can  induce 

Somebody  to  pet  and  love  him — 
Aren't  you,  Bruce  ? 


Very  puzzling  must  he  find  it 
To  resist  forbidden  joys — 

Why  should  human  beings  mind  it 
If  a  Collie  makes  a  noise  ? 

If  he  gets  excited  playing, 
Barks  for  joy  to  be  let  loose, 

Why  is  someone  always  saying, 
"  Quiet,  Bruce  !  " 


Yet  his  life  is  pure  contentment, 
Taking  all  things  in  good  part, 

Never  cherishing  resentment 
In  his  generous  dog's  heart. 

See  him,  how  his  head  he  raises, — 
How  he  droops  it  at  abuse, — 

Glad  if  but  one  known  voice  praises, 
"  Bravo,  Bruce  !  " 


With  pathetic  patience  waiting, 
Humbly,  while  I  moralise, 

What  conundrum  is  debating 
In  those  wondering  brown  eyes  ? 


A  COLLIE  DOG  109 

Are  you  very  tired  of  lying 

While  I  muse  on  themes  obtuse  ? 
Off  then  ! — and  the  ball  goes  flying — 
Fetch  it,  Bruce ! 


THE  VISIONARIES 

AT  five  years  old  they  knew  it  well, 
And  kept  it  long  in  sight, — 

It  lay  between  the  nursery  bell 
And  kisses  for  good  night. 

Its  magic  could  itself  deceive, 
Its  wonders  had  no  end, 

The  mystic  land  of  Make-believe 
And  Let's-pretend ! 

They  lost  it  in  their  growing  youth 
With  little  thought  or  care — 

Life  was  too  full  of  vivid  truth 
For  Castles-in-the-air. 

In  hot  adventure  must  they  don 
Their  armour,  for  the  Real, 

With  hardly  time  to  think  upon 
Some  lost  Ideal. 

Yet  when  they  chanced  to  fall  in  love 

Their  souls  could  understand — 
The  Heavens  opened  wide  above 

And  showed  it  still  at  hand. 
For  quickened  hearts  once  more  receive 

And  cherish  as  a  friend 
The  mystic  land  of  Make-believe 
And  Let's-pretend. 
no 


THE  VISIONARIES  111 

In  middle-age  it  died  away 

To  duller  days  and  nights  ; 
Prosaic  cares  of  everyday 

Shut  out  its  rainbow  lights. 
The  comfort  of  the  fireside 

Was  dearer  than  of  yore, — 
But  faces  in  the  coals  descried 
No  more — no  more  ! 

But  age  unlocks  the  gates  again, 

And  failing  eyes  can  see 
The  wonder  world  made  straight  and  plain, 

A  golden  memory. 
No  fear  of  death  can  those  deceive 

Who  find  it,  at  the  end, 
The  olden  land  of  Make-believe 
And  Let's-pretend  ! 


CAPRICE 

SHE  dresses  herself  in  shimmer  of  green 

And  shakes  her  skirts  in  the  wind  ; 
And  her  lover  the  Sun  has  never  yet  seen 

A  lady  more  to  his  mind. 
Her  Spring  costume  is  better  than  Worth, — 

Her  Summer  clothes  finer  far, — 
Says  the  Sun  to  the  coquette,  Earth, 

"  Ah  !  how  pretty  you  are  !  " 

But  though  she  yields  to  his  wooing  delight 

She  forgets  him  almost  as  soon  ; 
For  hardly  her  lover  is  out  of  sight 

Than  she  coquets  with  the  moon  ! 
And  the  Sun  in  anger  hides  him  away 

Through  the  mists  and  the  Autumn  rain  ; 
He  sulks,  and  vows  it  will  be  a  long  day 

Ere  he  will  trust  her  again  ! 

She  dresses  herself  in  snowy  white, 
She  sparkles  from  every  bough — 

She  waits,  assured,  for  her  lover's  sight, 
And  who  could  resist  her  now  ? 

He  peeps  from  clouds  at  the  Year's  new  birth- 
He  blazes  down  from  afar — 

Says  the  Sun  to  that  flirt,  the  Earth, 
"  Ah  !  how  pretty  you  are  !  " 

112 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  HORSE 

WHEN  the  second  crop  of  the  Summer's  grasses 

Browns,  and  is  carried  from  furthest  slope, — 
When  daylight  narrows,  and  harvest  passes, 

The  heart  of  the  hunter  beats  with  hope  ! 
Leave  the  holiday  fields  that  mark  us, — 

Back  to  stable  and  stall  again  ; — 
Till  swelling  barrel  and  grass-fed  carcase 

Harden  under  the  hay  and  grain. 

When  fixtures  are  early,  and  old  tradition 

Draws  but  few  to  the  covert  side, — 
When  horse  and  rider  are  out  of  condition, 

The  wall  looms  large,  and  the  bank  looks  wide  ! — 
When  cubs  are  sulky  and  hounds  are  chidden, 

When  stride  and  gallop  feel  strange  and  queer, — 
When  hedges  are  blind  and  wire  is  hidden, — 

The  heart  of  the  hunter  beats  with  fear  ! 

Welcome  the  morning  when  no  one  idles — 

Welcome  the  science  of  hounds  at  work  ! 
By  the  wise,  keen  faces  that  look  through  the  bridles 

It  isn't  the  horse  who  is  going  to  shirk. 
So  it's  hey  !  for  the  rider  who  looks  like  going, — 

With  the  hands  of  a  girl,  and  the  seat  of  a  boy, — 
A  man's  decision — a  woman's  knowing, — 

And  the  heart  of  the  hunter  beats  with  joy. 

H  113 


SWINBURNIA 

WHEN  Life  forgets  her  sorrow 
And  Death  asserts  his  claim 

In  some  unknown  to-morrow 
Whose  date  I  may  not  name, 

Some  comfort  I  may  borrow 
Far  down  the  ways  of  fame. 

When  hearts  forget  their  aching 
And  there  is  no  more  sea, 

No  restless  billows,  breaking 
For  ever,  endlessly — 

I  shall  not  fear  the  waking 
In  some  far  land  and  free. 

When  you  and  I  are  lying 
Forgotten  of  mankind, 

But  heart  to  heart  replying, 
As  erstwhile  mind  to  mind, 

How  should  we  heed  the  sighing 
Of  any  earthly  wind  ? 

If  you  had  been  a  sinner, 

Or  I  had  been  a  saint, 
Death  had  not  been  the  winner, 

Life  had  not  known  restraint. 
The  cord,  at  one  time  thinner, 

Had  snapt  for  my  complaint. 
114 


SWINBURNIA  115 

But  now  Life  sets  a  hurt  in, 

The  deeper  Life  beneath, 
Until  Death  draws  the  curtain 

Upon  the  last,  long  breath — 
And  how  can  we  be  certain 

That  Love  is  after  Death  ? 

Kind  Earth,  all  stains  removing, 

Gives  good  gifts  after  strife — 
Six  feet  of  turf,  for  proving 

That  dreams  are  no  more  rife, 
For  Life  says  "  No  "  to  loving, 

But  Death  says  "  No  "  to  Life. 


A  FISHER'S  SONG 

(Plymouth  Sound) 

SEND  us  a  breeze  to  blow  the  brit  ashore — 
The  mack'rel  feed  too  well  beyond  the  bay 

And  will  not  take  our  bait ; 
The  school  went  past  at  dawning  of  the  day, 

And  still  the  markets  wait ; — 
New  last,  bright  spinner  will  not  take  them  more. 
Send  us  a  breeze  to  blow  the  brit  ashore  I 

Before  the  dawn,  a  little  while  before, 
When  the  pale  sky  was  greener  than  the  wave, 

We  beat  to  open  sea  ; 
The  fishing  grounds  were  barren  as  the  wave,- 

The  fish  were  biting  free 
But  feeding  on  the  ocean's  lawful  store. 
Send  us  a  breeze  to  blow  the  brit  ashore  I 

Hard  on  the  starboard  tack  we  set,  and  bore 
To  eastward  of  the  breakwater  ;  the  wind 

A 

Blew  steady  from  the  land. 
Five  fathoms  deep  the  sinkers  ran  behind, — 

No  bite  on  either  hand. 
Send  us  a  breeze  to  blow  the  brit  ashore — 
A  sou  west  breeze  to  blow  the  brit  ashore  I 


116 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WEST 

IF  you  should  go  by  Bickleigh  Vale 

When  Spring  is  in  the  air, 
'Tis  I  will  come  through  woods  a-wet, 
Through  primrose  and  through  violet, 
And  bluebells  from  a  fairy-tale 

Because  for  Earth  too  fair, — 
And  though  you  never  hear  my  feet 
My  spirit  with  your  own  shall  meet — 

Be  sure  I  shall  be  there  ! 
Oh,  what  can  rival  Bickleigh  Vale 

When  Spring  is  in  the  air  P 

And  if  you  come  from  Higher  Hooe 

When  Summer's  on  the  mead, 
'Tis  I  will  pass  through  Radford  gate 
Where  the  old  carp-pools  lie  in  state, 
Across  the  road  to  call  to  you 

Although  you  should  not  heed. 
Oh  meadows  rich  with  meadow-sweet ! 
They  brush  no  more  my  passing  feet 

That  follow  where  you  lead, 
And  if  you  come  from  Higher  Hooe 

When  Summer's  on  the  mead. 

If  you  should  chance  on  Roborough 
When  Autumn's  on  the  Down, 
117 


118  THE  CALL  OF  THE  WEST 

'Tis  I  am  listening  for  the  horn 
Upon  the  earliest  cubbing  morn, 
From  Bickham  gate  and  Horrowbeer 

As  far  as  Coppicetown. 
And  riding  fleetfoot  Memory 
My  spirit  shall  go  merrily 

For  love  of  old  renown. 
//  you  should  chance  on  Roborough 

When  Autumn's  on  the  Down. 

But  if  you  dare  face  Wistman's  Wood 

When  Winter's  on  the  Moor, 
You'll  hear  the  winds  go  raving  by — 
Oh  listen  !  listen  !  it  is  I 
Who,  leaving  Heaven  to  the  Good, 

Slip  through  the  open  door, 
And  claim  the  Forest  for  my  tomb — 
For  there  my  spirit  shall  have  room, 

In  Heaven  pinched  and  poor. 
My  winding  sheet  at  Wistman's  Wood 

Is  fog  upon  the  Moor  I 


THE  ABSENT  OWNER 

THIS  is  Lord  Mt.  Leaven's  land — 

But  he  never  comes  here, 
Though  his  slanted  bluebells  stand 
Trooping  to  the  waterstrand, 

And  the  beetle  drums  here — 
Windflowers  are  a  sight  in  Spring, 
Lark  and  chaffinch  on  the  wing, 
While  the  blackbird  calls — 
Oh  the  blackbird  calls 

Far  across  the  Happy  Valley  ! 

And  the  bugles,  how  they  rally 
In  the  month  of  May, 

Like  blue  candles  all  arow  ; 

And  white  clouds  that  drift  and  flow 
Crown  the  quiet  day. 

Wooded  scents  arise  and  steam 
From  the  hidden,  talking  stream  ; 
And  the  ground  is  mauve  where  yet 
Alehood  mimics  violet — 

Earth's  dream  of  Heaven. 
Grateful  for  its  tenant-right 
Primrose  grows  in  all  men's  sight 

Praising  Lord  Mt.  Leaven  ! 
Not  a  flower  will  he  uproot 

For  he  does  not  know  them — 
'Tis  his  keepers  come  to  shoot 

In  the  woods  below  them. 
119 


120  THE  ABSENT  OWNER 

And  the  Happy  Valley  dreams 

Through  the  happy  seasons — 
Just  existing,  so  it  seems, 

For  the  best  of  reasons, 
Beauty,  and  delight,  and  grace, 
Gathered  in  a  little  space 

For  the  absent  owner — 

An  unconscious  donor, 
Though  his  foot  has  never  pressed 

Greenest  moss  and  yielding  grass — 
Though  his  eyes  may  never  rest 

On  the  shadows  as  they  pass. 
Beauty,  and  delight,  and  grace 
Pass  him  by — 
Oh,  pass  him  by  ! 
Never  meet  him  face  to  race. 
But  the  smallest  leaf  may  claim 
The  protection  of  his  name. 
Minute  insect  in  the  grass, 
Sun  and  shadow  as  they  pass, 
Oak  and  beech  tree  as  they  stand, 

And  the  bee  that  hums  here, — 
All  things  living,  great  and  small, 
Are  his  tenants  one  and  all. — 
Gorgeous  sweeps  of  gorgeous  green 
Where  the  woods  swell  out  between, 

Down  whose  heart  the  water  flows 

Taking  inly  as  it  goes, 

Saying  plain  to  one  who  knows, 
"  This  is  Lord  Mt.  Leaven's  land, 

But — he  never  comes  here  !  " 


TAVISTOCK 

THERE'S  a  peal  o'  bells  in  Tavistock 

A-playing  "  Home,  sweet  home  !  " 
At  each  full  hour  chimes  the  clock 
And  then  the  bells  of  Tavistock 

Go  singing  "  Home,  sweet  home  !  " 
The  sleepy  town  below  the  moors 
Half  heeds,  half  hears,  the  closing  doors 

Of  hours  go  and  come, 
Rung  from  the  belfry  slow  and  sweet, 
Familiar  to  the*  passing  feet 

Of  those  who,  call  it  home. 
Tavistock — Tavistock — 

Home,  sweet  home ! 

Between  my  heart  and  Tavistock 

Lie  miles  and  miles  of  foam  ; 
The  ship  beats  on  her  outward  way, 
But  as  it  is  the  Sabbath  day 
I  know  the  bells  of  Tavistock 

Are  playing  "  Home,  sweet  home  !  " 
And  still  across  the  windy  waste, 

Across  the  broken  foam, 
I  hear  the  slow,  deliberate  clock, 
I  hear  the  bells  of  Tavistock 

A-playing  "  Home,  sweet  home  !  " 
Tavistock — Tavistock — 

Devonshire — and  home  ! 
121 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAND 

(Crown  Hill) 

You  mustn't  lock  your  gates  against  the  blackberry  pickers — 

You  must  let  the  mushroom  gatherers  go  where  they  will. 
*Tis  I  was  up  at  daylight  in  the  moist  green  meadows, 
Where  the  mushroom  spawn  had  grown  between  the  night's 
dim  shadows, — 

I  with  my  bent  back  and  basket  to  fill. 
Folks  with  laden  orchards  may  do  well  to  home-bide — 

Folks  with  stock  at  graze  may  grumble  lest  they  stray — 
But  the  hedgerows  are  for  cottagers,  inside  and  outside, — 

If  we  lift  a  gate  the  cows  won't  all  get  away  ! 
Folk  with  laden  orchards  may  revel  in  their  riches, 

And  never  give  a  windfall  to  the  vagrant  should  he  pass  ; 
But  it's  God's  good  fruit  in  the  hedges  and  ditches, 

It's  God's  own  food  in  the  long  rank  grass. 
That's  the  law  for  us,  my  dear,  out  in  the  morning  early, 
Or  picking  off  the  berries,  though  the  farmer  greets  us  surly — 

He  can't  claim  Nature's  gifts,  or  God's,  better  still. — 
For  you  mustn't  lock  your  gates  against  the  blackberry  pickers — 

You  must  let  the  mushroom  gatherers  go  where  they  will  I 


123 


THE  BASKET  MEN 

THE  basket  men  go  up, 

And  the  basket  men  go  down, 
All  the  way  from  the  valley  cup 

And  into  the  seaport  town. 
And  the  streets  are  gay  with  their  daffodils, 
And  their  violets  bloom  on  the  window-sills 

And  there's  watercress  for  tea. 
Slip-shod  tramp — slip-shod  tramp — 
They  hitch  the  old  basket,  dry  or  damp 

And  set  their  face  to  the  sea. 
Whatever  the  hungry  lacks, 

And  whether  we  smile  or  frown, 
They  are  bringing  the  Spring  up  on  their  backs 
And  into  Plymouth  town. 

The  basket  men  go  near, 

And  the  basket  men  go  far  ; 
Though  mouths  are  hungry  and  food  is  dear, 

And  the  land  is  shadowed  by  War. 
But  there's  varied  ivy  for  wreath  and  cross, 
And  greenest  moss  for  the  place  of  loss, 

And  primrose-roots  at  best. 
Slip-shod  tramp — slip-shod  tramp — 
Queer  old  fellows  to  pass  your  Camp 

With  snowdrops  from  the  West ! 
For  whatever  the  hungry  lacks, 

And  whether  we  smile  or  frown, 
They  are  bringing  the  Spring  up  on  their  backs 
And  into  Plymouth  town  I 
123 


MILTON  COOMBE 

OH  I  wonder  how  the  folks  live  at  Milton  ? 

(The  little  village 

Down  the  valley  !) 
It's  so  out  of  the  way 
At  the  other  end  of  day 

That  it's  nothing  but  the  World's  blind-alley. 
And  when  the  frost  and  snow  come  to  Milton 

They  wrap  a  drift  blanket  over  all, 
Till  those  who  pass  by, 
Somewhere  up  in  the  sky, 

Look  down  and  see  nothing  but  the  great  white  pall 
That  fills  the  cleft — 
There's  nothing  left 

To  say  if  there's  a  corpse  below  the  pall. 
Fast  asleep — fast  asleep — 

Milton's  gone  to  sleep  below  the  high  cliff  wall 
Where  they  spread  their  gardens  in  the  Summer, — 

Yes  !  grow  their  peas  and  cabbage  on  the  shelfs  beneath  the 
rock — 

Cut  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  rock. 
There  the  bee,  that  vagrant  hummer, 

Drowses  in  the  early  stock, 

Or  later  on  the  hollyhock. 

Oh  I  wonder  if  the  folks  love  at  Milton  ? 
(The  little  village 
Down  the  valley, 

124 


MILTON  125 

The  ancient  cleft  that  caught  it, 

And  the  Inn  "  Who-would-ha'-thought-it  " 

Playing  hide-an'-seek  down  the  alley.) 
No  one  knows,  for  no  one  goes 
Save  by  gift  of  happy  chance 

Where  the  chuckling  stream  goes  through  it, 

Half  a  dozen  bridges  to  it — 
Do  they  whisper  ?    Do  they  dally  ? 

Shut  so  far  away 

At  the  other  end  of  day  ! 
Hidden  life  and  hidden  love  at  Milton — 

The  little  village 

Down  the  valley  ! 


A  WEST-COUNTRY  HUNTING  SONG 
THE  END  OF  THE  SEASON 

(D.F.H.  and  Lamerton) 

HAVE  you  ever  ridden  our  Moors  ? 
When  the  rain  comes  up  in  streamers  from  the  West, 
Drifted  between  Earth  and  Heaven's  windy  floors — 
And  the  Tors  are  in  a  shroud, 
And  you  gallop  in  a  cloud 

That  is  wringing,  stinging  round  you  and  the  rest. 
And  you  cannot  see  the  field  as  they  rally, 
And  hounds  are  out  of  sight  across  the  valley — 

Sight  and  hearing  close  their  doors — 
Some  far  sense  beyond  all  knowledge  guides  your  will, 
As  the  music  dies  away, 
And  its  drifting,  dripping  grey, 
Through  which  you  gallop  blind,  but  gallop  still. — 
Have  you  ever  ridden  our  Moors  ? 

Or  there  comes  a  day 

Bitter,  biting,  East,  and  grey, 

When  the  forest  gives  no  shelter  either  way. 

You  must  face  it,  man  and  horse, 

All  its  boundless,  lawless  force, — 
Till  the  whole  world  seems  but  one  vast  out-o'-doors. 

Hour  by  hour  it  will  not  tire, 
The  ruffian  wind  ! 

Stinging  cold  like  bitter  fire — 
126 


A  WEST-COUNTRY  HUNTING  SONG       127 

And  the  stubborn  Winter  heather, 
As  we  gallop  all  together, 
Ripples  under  pressure  of  its  course, 
Ripples,  black  and  claret,  from  its  force — 

Here  on  either  hand,  before,  behind. 
Wistman's  Wood  to  Believer, 
Shelter  lies  not  here  nor  there. 
Till  you  cannot  hear  your  voice  shouting  as  you  go, 
Till  the  good  horse  under  you  staggers  from  its  blow. — 
Have  you  ever  ridden  our  Moors  ? 

Oh  the  mighty  boulder  rocks 

Breaking  through  the  earth  ! 
Slab  and  shingle,  giant  blocks. — 

This  is  something  worth, 

Forty  minutes  going,  and  a  straight-necked  Moorland  fox — 
Bogged  adown  the  valley,  broken  by  the  giant  rocks — 
Scrambling  through  the  Cherry  Brook — and  everyone  content 
Long  as  hounds  are  running  on  a  screaming,  streaming  scent. 
Going  at  the  gallop  down  a  broken,  rocky  stair — 
Going  at  the  gallop  through  the  mighty  Moorland  air — 

Naked  Earth,  and  Heaven's  windy  floors. 
Oh    Leicestershire    and    Warwickshire — timber,    dyke,   and 

water-cut, — 

Yorkshire  and  the  Midlands, — all  the  Irish  "  cracks," — 
All  the  flying  country,  all  the  woodland  packs, — 
Heroes  of  the  saddle,  take  your  hard-earned  laurels  !  .  .  .  But 
Have  you  ever  ridden  our  Moors  P 


ENVOI 

A  ROUNDEL  IN  DYING 

(To  One  already  Dead) 

GOOD  night,  Beloved  !    I  am  very  tired. 
For  many  weary  years  the  world  has  hired 

My  work  and  me  to  serve  them,  to  my  woe  ; 

They  praise  my  ceaseless  effort,  high  and  low, 
As  something  precious  that  their  hearts  required. 

There  has  been  much  in  life  I  have  desired. 
Now  what  remains  of  all  I  most  admired 

On  this  green  Earth  ? — Only  God's  leave  to  go. — 
Good  night,  Beloved. 

Yet  come  once  more  with  human  love  inspired, 
Whisper  one  word  with  the  old  passion  fired — 
Out  of  the  void  kiss  me  that  I  may  know 
Your  touch  again.  .  .  .  Stoop  down,  and  bless  me  so 
Good  night,  .  .  .  Beloved  !  .  .  . 


The  May/lower  Prtss,  Plymouth,  England.     William  Brendon  &  SOB,  LU 


University  of  California 

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405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

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